Guiding Destiny
by NittanyLizard
Summary: She thought she was in it to fix his story. He showed her she was there to find her own.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** She thought she was in it to fix his story. He showed her she was there to find her own.

 **Guiding Destiny**

 **Chapter 1**

I squinted against the bright sunlight as I walked out of the movie theatre. My brother, Ponyboy, and I had gone to see a Paul Newman movie. Ponyboy likes Paul Newman. In fact, he wishes he looked like him, because Paul Newman is tough and doesn't have green eyes.

I myself kind of look like a combination of all three of my older brothers, who take care of me since our parents got killed in a car accident eight months ago. My build is like Ponyboy's, except that I'm a girl; my hair is the same color as Sodapop's – and yes, that's his real name, it says so on his birth certificate; and my eyes are the same color as Darry's. Except that my eyes have feeling, whereas Darry's are cold and hard, like ice.

I thought about my life as we walked. I'm a girl greaser, the only one in our gang. Everybody accepts me, though, and lets me hang out with them, because I'm a Curtis. They kind of protect me, too, especially my brothers, even though they did teach me how to fight. I don't fight too often, but the rich kids, or Socs, gang up on us sometimes, and you have to be prepared. You have to be tough, like me.

I glanced over at Ponyboy and smiled when I saw him looking at me. I am a year younger than him, and we get along great since we're so close in age and so much alike. We're both quiet, and we like reading and sunsets. I'm the only person Ponyboy can watch a movie with, too. With anyone else, he feels like somebody is reading a book over his shoulder.

Ponyboy slowed down a bit, so I did, too. I wondered if something was wrong, but then he kept going at a normal pace.

So anyway, back to the gang – there's Two-Bit, the wisecracker of the bunch who drinks beer all the time and is good at stealing things and likes Mickey Mouse. He watches it at our house all the time, it's so funny. Then there's Steve, who doesn't like me and Pony. He is Soda's best buddy, but he thinks me and Ponyboy are kids and tagalongs.

Ponyboy sped up a little, so I quickened my pace. Maybe he had noticed a car full of Socs trailing us. I glanced behind us, but didn't see anything. We slowed down again for several steps, then went back to a normal pace.

Dally is one of the other members of our gang. He is hard and mean with a police record that's a mile long. Pony and I both think he's kind of scary. In an elf-like way. And finally, there's Johnny, who is kind of like the gang's pet. He makes us think of a scared puppy that's been –

"Okay, what is going on?" Ponyboy had stopped walking and was glaring at me.

I shifted back and forth. "Uh . . ."

He waited a few seconds, I guess for something more useful, but I was kind of at a loss for words. He finally raised his eyebrows. "Look, I'm not sure what's going on with you, and I was fine with you sitting next to me at the movie. I even would have walked you home if you had asked."

I gave my brother a confused shrug. "What's wrong, Ponyboy?"

He wrinkled his brow at me. "Do I . . . _know_ you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Guiding Destiny**

 **Chapter 2**

I gaped at Ponyboy. Something was horribly wrong. "Uh . . . it's me, Pony. You know – your sister. Remember?" I finished feebly, then bit down on my bottom lip.

Ponyboy shook his head. "Look, I'm sorry, but this isn't right. I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I just don't know you. So maybe you should just move along, go ahead home." He motioned as if to shoo me away.

My heart weighed heavily in my chest, and I wondered how much I should tell him. "Okay, look," I started, trying for honesty, even if he was going to think I was insane, "you aren't . . . real."

He stared at me and gave an impatient circular wave of his hand.

"I mean, you're very real to so many people, but the fact is, you're a character. In a book." I waited for the men in white coats to come and pick me up, thereby completely mutilating my story.

Ponyboy waved a hand again like he wanted me to continue. "Yeah, I know that. But what exactly are _you_ doing here?"

It was my turn to stare. "You . . . you _know_? You know that you're a character in a book?" I must have looked like I'd just seen, oh, I don't know . . . something really surprising. I made a mental note to buy a thesaurus.

He looked impatient. "Of course I know. I go through the same routine fifty-thousand times a day. Sometimes for the same people, day after day."

"I . . . wow." I couldn't get over it. He _knew_? "But, well . . . wait a minute. How come you noticed me? People do this all the time, and everything just moves along and nobody ever says anything."

Ponyboy gazed at me for a moment before finally throwing his arms up in disgust. "You just can't take a hint, can you?" he asked. "Well, forget it. I'm not going through this again."

"Again?" I hurried after him when he started walking.

"Yeah, again," he said, clearly annoyed. "You jump into my story, take over everything, and change everybody. Nothing comes out the way it's supposed to in the end."

"But," I panted (he's got some long legs), "that's the whole idea. I can make things different. I can keep Johnny and Dally from dying. I can -"

I almost ran into Ponyboy when he stopped abruptly and turned to face me. "What? You can what? Do you have any idea what happens if Johnny and Dally don't die? There's no story! The plot would be non-existent!" I took a step back, throw off by his frustration. "I mean, seriously, what would the story be about?"

"It would . . . ." I stopped to think, and Ponyboy waggled a finger at me.

"Uh-huh, yeah. That's what I thought. Who on earth wants to read a book about a bunch of thugs that nothing happens to? Why would my English teacher care in the least to read about my pathetic life? And why would I even write about it, if I hadn't been inspired by my new understanding of Johnny and Dally, and everything they died for?"

"I -"

"It doesn't make sense!" he went on passionately, giving me an accusing look. "And you probably didn't even bother to develop a plot, did you?"

I stiffened. This was getting to be a bit much. There was no reason to throw insults around. "Of course I did," I snapped.

He crossed his arms expectantly.

"I . . . well, it's about . . . I'm your sister, and . . . you and I are very close and get along really well." I paused, but then continued when he didn't make any comments about the obvious flaw with that one. "Soda is very protective of me, and Darry gets a little frustrated with me, even though I'm kind of tough. Stuff in the book kind of happens, but I'm there, and -"

"So what difference would it make if you're there or not? If you change the ending, there's no book; I never would have written it," he cut in. "And if you just go along for the ride, then I have to stand aside and watch everybody act like idiots over you and pretend I actually like you." He shook his head and started walking again. "Well, not this time, _sister_. Forget it."

I stumbled after him again. "What do you mean, not this time? That's not fair!" Something occurred to me. "Why would everybody else be acting like idiots? Don't they . . . know?"

"No, they don't," he said without slowing down or turning to look at me. "They just do whatever they're supposed to do, and anyone new who comes along fits right into their memories." A slow grin spread across Ponyboy's face. My stomach clench up a little. "You want fair?" he asked, stopping and turning to look me in the eye.

I paused. "Uh . . . I guess so."

"Fine." He grinned in a manner that didn't at all make me feel happy or comfortable. "I'll give you two chapters. You have the next two chapters to come up with some sort of a plot, and to make this story worth reading. If you can't do it, you're out of here."

A surge of panic shot through me. "A plot?"

"Yeah, a plot. But this time," he went on, pointing a finger at me, "I am not relinquishing control. Everybody acts the way they're supposed to; so if you want in, you suck it up and go along with it."

I nodded. "Yeah," I agreed, more so that I could prove him wrong at that point than for any other reason. "Okay, deal. You keep control of everyone, and I'll make up the plot." My knees gave a quiver.

"First off," Pony asked, eyeing me closely, "what's your name?"

I smiled. "Destiny."

Ponyboy kind of smirked and shook his head.

I frowned. "Sparkle? Jade? Uh . . ."

"Something a little less . . . original," he said.

"Like Kayleigh?"

"Whatee?"

"Right. Okay, then maybe you have a suggestion?" I was starting to get annoyed. I mean, this was supposed to be _my_ story, after all, and I couldn't pick my own name?

My pretend-brother thought for a second. "How about Sarah? You kind of look like a Sarah."

Sarah. I nodded, realizing he could throw me out of the story at any time if I didn't get on his good side. "Sarah it is, then," I agreed. "It's a nice name."

"And your hair," he went on. "We need to do something about your hair."

I reached up to my head. "My hair? What's wrong with it?"

"Well, for starters, does that color even exist anywhere in this universe? And second, it needs to be shorter. Nobody who's only been alive for thirteen years has hair that long. I mean look," he pointed, "it's just about touching the sidewalk!"

"But I -"

"Shorter," he persisted.

I sighed. "Okay, okay. Shorter hair, and golden blonde." Ponyboy gave a slight shake of his head. "Blonde?" I clenched my teeth. "Alright! Brown hair! I will have boring old shoulder-length brown hair!" I squinted my eyes. "Can I at least have a few ringlets around my ears?"

"No. Next, your eyes. It's like, I can see the ocean in them."

I smiled. "Yes! They're deep blue, like the -"

"No, no. I can _see_ the _ocean_ – waves, sand, seagulls . . . that's just wrong. You can't be that literal. Fix it."

I sighed. "Alright. They're just blue. Sky blue."

Pony shook his head. "Green."

I was flabbergasted. "But . . . but you don't like people who have -"

"Green!" he ordered, narrowing his eyes when I started to argue again.

"Oh, alright already! Have it your way. My eyes are green, and now you have an actual _reason_ to not like me." I gave him what I hoped was a ferocious glare.

Ponyboy replied with a slight smile that only made me more annoyed, and then he glanced behind us before I could make any more arguments. "Okay, here we go."

I realized then that five well-dressed and fairly hot young guys were piling out of a red car and heading toward us. They were all smiling in a nice friendly way, so I smiled back.

"Don't say a word," Ponyboy breathed, hitching his thumbs in his pockets, and I realized that these were the scary rich guys who mugged, name-called, raped, pillaged, burned villages – that sort of thing.

I stood there next to Ponyboy while the Socs surrounded us and commented about grease and haircuts. Things were getting tense, and they were standing so close I could smell somebody's breath. "Leave us alone!" I suddenly shouted without thinking, because to be honest, I was getting scared and had forgotten that I had inserted myself into a story. Ponyboy shot me a look, and the five boys just kind of laughed.

"Your girlfriend has a big mouth," one of them said. The Soc who had spoken motioned to one of the other boys, who took a hold of my arm and held on tight while the others were all over Ponyboy, holding a knife to his throat.

I started screaming. In fact, I was screaming so loud I hardly noticed Ponyboy's yelling. I kind of knew what was going to happen, but I tell you, right in the midst of it, it was just downright scary, and I didn't do any of the tough exciting things that I had thought I would. I just screamed. Uselessly. The boy who was holding my arm got a hand over my mouth, and I couldn't do anything about it. He was bigger than me, and stronger, and I couldn't even bite him because my mouth was closed. For a second I thought that I would suffocate.

Just when I was starting to wonder frantically how I could get myself out of my story, he dropped me like a hot potato and took off. Within a few seconds I realized somebody had already dragged Ponyboy to his feet and was headed toward me next. Darry! A rush of excitement ran through me. I took a deep breath and prepared to make a few snide little remarks if he gave me any problems.

He yanked me to my feet and gave me a shake. "Good Lord, Sarah Jean, what in hell were you thinking, dressing like this? Is there a brain in that head, or do you just enjoy doing stupid things?"

I shrank back a little and tried to swallow the lump in my throat that always appears when somebody, especially large men who I barely know, yell at me. I couldn't seem to control it any better in my story than I could in real life. "I . . . I like low-rise blue jeans," I stammered, crossing my arms across my skin-tight black tank top.

"Like? _Like_?" he bellowed. "What has gotten into you? You look like a two-dollar whore! And for God's sake, wipe that stuff off your face." He turned his attention to Ponyboy, asking him if he was okay.

I rubbed at my face, certain I hadn't put _that_ much makeup on. The other guys were ambling back by then, and I was fighting hard to not cry. Soda bypassed me after a quick pat on the shoulder and a grin and went straight for Pony. "You got cut up a little, huh?"

As I watched the scene unfold, it took me several minutes to realize that everybody was mostly ignoring me. "So you're out of the cooler, Dally?" I finally piped up at a completely inappropriate time.

They all stared at me like I had a lug nut for a head. Ponyboy looked amused.

"I was thinking of heading over to the Nightly Double tomorrow night, hunt up some action," Dally announced.

"I'll go," I offered.

Darry glared at me, and I quivered. Ponyboy wasn't kidding when he said he's big and scary. "No, you will not," he said, moving on a moment later to okay Ponyboy's involvement in the movie plan.

I was indignant. How was I supposed to be a part of the story if Darry wouldn't let me go to the movies with Ponyboy? And why was Soda focusing so much attention on Ponyboy, and hardly any at all on me? A surprising surge of jealousy shot through me. Pony and I were supposed to be almost exactly alike, and Soda understood us. _Both_ of us. I glared at Ponyboy, but he was involved in a conversation with Soda.

As everyone started to disperse, I followed my story family home, feeling miserable. This was supposed to be _my_ story. I was supposed to be controlling things. Darry was supposed to be frustrated but patient with me, Soda was supposed to console me, and Ponyboy was supposed to understand me.

This was _not_ going the way I had planned it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"But I just wanted to be part of the family," I sniffled quietly. Ponyboy looked annoyed. So far, everybody else had accepted me as the youngest Curtis sibling. I even had a bedroom and a closet full of clothes (that I found kind of hideous, if you want the truth). But they were reacting to me like I was a little kid who was in the way. Everybody had their own thing going on so that nobody was paying any attention to me. "Can't you at least have somebody notice me?"

Ponyboy sighed. "Look, I'm not actually controlling anyone. I'm just letting them be themselves by keeping you from changing them. It's not up to me how they see you."

I gaped at him, horrified. "But I'm supposed to be part of the gang!"

I must have really looked like a wreck, because Ponyboy's voice took on a more gentle tone, and he seemed to choose his words carefully. "Well, it kind of seems like, you know, the gang sort of, well . . . I think you're just our little sister to them. You know? I don't think they really see you as part of the gang, per se."

I wanted to throw up. "But _why_?"

He blinked at me. "Well, you're . . . a girl. And you're, what, thirteen? Barely? You probably still play with Barbie dolls, right?"

Again, I was horrified. _How did he know that?_ "I do not!" I snapped.

"Well, whatever. Look, I'm not sure what you want me to say to you. All I can offer is, get some sleep, and maybe you'll have things worked out better tomorrow." He must have been starting to feel sorry for me. Darry had had me make dinner, and then he got annoyed and gave me a talking to about money and our lack of it when I burned the chicken and served crunchy baked potatoes. I had been in tears pretty much the whole evening, since we had gotten back from the encounter with the hot rich guys. _I should have just made myself Bob's sister._ They probably had a cook and a maid.

Ponyboy glanced at the door. "Look, I need to go finish my homework before Darry comes checking on it. You gonna be okay?"

I sniffed. Sure, now he was being all nice, now that he'd gotten my story all messed up. "I'm fine," I whispered shakily.

"Good." I watched him wander out of the room and close the door behind him. If it had gone my way, he would have hugged me and told me I could sleep in his and Soda's room so I wouldn't be scared. That, I thought indignantly, would have made a much better ending to the chapter.

Thinking about the Socs as I rubbed my bruised arm, I leaned back onto the lumpy mattress and stared out the window at the streetlight. Some people walked past outside talking in loud rough voices. A shiver ran through me. Where was sensitive Soda when I needed him? I pulled the covers over my head and spent the next two hours falling asleep.

#

Darry gave me an expectant look. "What is it?" His eyes were boring into me, and all I could do was stare at his face and notice things I hadn't picked up on the day before: his nose was straight and even, and his features were sharp and well-defined. His eyes, while kind of bluish-greenish, didn't look cold to me at all. They looked decisive, and smart, and confident, and maybe a little tired, but not cold. "Sarah?"

I took a breath. "Um . . . I was just thinking, can I . . . is it alright if I go to the movies with Ponyboy tonight? I mean, if I stay with -"

"No," he cut in. "I already said no. Why are you asking me again?" Now his eyes were looking a tad impatient, and the word _irritated_ was also coming to mind. He picked up a hand weight and curled it up to his shoulder.

"No problem," I said quickly. "I mean, sorry. I'll just stay here. Yep. I'm sure I'll find plenty to do, here. Maybe a game of Scrabble, or some Monopoly, or I'll re-categorize my MP3 stuff . . . ."

Having given me his answer, Darry was ignoring me and had already moved on to a conversation with Soda, who was across the room pulling his shirt on.

"Sarah?" Soda was looking at me with concern. Finally! Apparently I had phased out for a second.

"Yes?"

"Could you quit staring at me like that? It's kind of creepy."

"Oh." I nodded. "Okay."

Soda raised his eyebrows and waited.

"I'll just go in my room. And play with my Barbies," I muttered under my breath.

I ran into Ponyboy on the way to my room. "Hi," I greeted grumpily.

"Hey." He started to walk past me, but then turned. "So, how's it going?" The hint of a smile was pulling at the corners of his mouth.

I won't give him the satisfaction, I thought. "Going? Oh, great! It's going great!" I smiled hugely. "Exactly according to plan!"

Ponyboy gave a knowing grin. "Yeah. Okay. Well, good luck with that."

"And where exactly are _you_ going?" I huffed.

He shrugged. "Out. It doesn't matter. Nothing happens again until tonight, so I have some free time. See ya' later." Ponyboy pressed by me, and a few seconds later the front door slammed.

I sighed. "Nice. Very nice." Now what was I supposed to do? I wandered into my bedroom and circled the bed, pausing to kick some cobwebs out of the corner with my shoe before stepping up to the window and holding the curtain aside. There wasn't much more going on outside than there was in my room. I ended up flopping down on the bed with an issue of Seventeen magazine that totally sucked me in for the next hour. I couldn't believe the kinds of things girls went through just to fix their hair – curlers the size of a burrito, hairdryers that wrapped onto your head like a swim cap on steroids, and ozone-eating aerosol hairspray to finish it all off.

"Are you ready?"

I jumped and looked over the magazine to the doorway. "What?"

Steve looked down at his watch, then back at me. "Huh?"

"I said, 'what'?"

He gave his head a little shake. "Are you ready to leave?"

I wasn't sure how to respond. Was I ready? It really sucked, not knowing what was going through everybody else's head. "Uh . . . am I ready?"

I guess Steve got tired of playing games. "Come on, let's go." He dug through his pocket as I trailed him toward the front door. "Here's the money from Darry."

I took the wad of bills from his hand and flipped through it. There was a twenty, a couple of fives, and some ones. "Wow. There's enough here for plenty of . . . uh . . . ."

Steve gave me an odd look. "Groceries."

"Groceries?" I followed him out the front door. "I'm going grocery shopping?" _What the heck?_ For a minute, I forgot I was supposed to know what was going on.

After opening the passenger door for me, Steve circled his car, pulled open the driver's side door, and hopped in behind the wheel. "Just like every other weekend."

"Right," I agreed. "Since Darry's at work."

That comment got me something of an amused look. "Why the heck'd Darry be at work today?"

"No, that's not what I meant. You know, since he's doing . . . ." Steve started the engine as I slid into the passenger seat, "his . . . weekend stuff." It took us about three minutes to get to the grocery store, which was nothing like the Super Shopper Plus I was used to. It was maybe a tenth of the size.

"Could you close the door?" Steve called out.

I looked back. "Oh! Sorry. Hey, wait, Steve? Um . . . am I being picked up like normal? I mean, you know, by . . . ." I waved my hand in a circle.

He nodded. "Soda. I'd imagine so. He's your brother, though, so you'd know better than me." Having supplied me with that immensely useless bit of information, Steve took off.

It took me almost two hours to do the grocery shopping. It just wasn't something I had ever done on my own, and I kept thinking of stuff that would go with things that were already in the cart, so I'd have to backtrack to where the fruit was, or over to the meat, and then I'd realize I had no idea if we had enough toilet paper. You get the idea. It sucked. And then, it took the cashier about twenty minutes to ring everything up. She had to look at the price sticker on every single item and punch it into the cash register. The produce was a pain, because she had to weigh it, type in the weight, and then put in the price. And on top of it all, I ended up having to choose some things to subtract back out again because I didn't have enough money.

I hefted the cart out to the front of the store and checked around the little parking lot for Soda. There were only six cars, so it wasn't too hard to establish that he wasn't there yet. So, I sat down to wait. On the plus side, I figured as I gazed at the ground in front of me, I probably had a little bit of time to collect a few rocks for my Grandpa.

One hour and seven minutes later, Sodapop stood in front of me, smiling down like everything was peachy. "Been waiting long?"

I was aghast. "Almost two hours!" I exaggerated. Seriously, though, I might have been there that long, if the actual shopping hadn't taken so long. "There's milk in here, and raw chicken! And it's, like, ninety-five degrees!" Beads of sweat dribbled down my chest like melted butter. It was gross.

He gave me an indignantly amused smirk. "So how come you didn't call me when you were ready?"

"Call you?"

Soda hefted one of the bags into the trunk before pointing to the payphone. "Yeah, call me. Like you usually do. Forget to bring a dime?"

I straightened my skirt and tried to look casual. "I was getting some sun. It's a nice day." _He thinks I'm insane_. He's going to just take off with the groceries, leave me here, and let me fend for myself.

"Sarah!"

I jumped.

Soda motioned impatiently from inside the car. "Get in already! Gotta get you home, so you can get started on dinner. I'm starvin'."

#

"But why do I have to do the cooking all the time?" I persisted. We'd been at it since I had walked in the front door.

Darry gave a deep sigh as he pulled groceries from the bags. "You like to cook," he told me. "Good Lord, Sarah, did you buy anything besides chicken, potatoes, and corn?"

"Rice," I said. "I bought rice."

"Yeah, I noticed. Six boxes."

I smiled. "Seventeen cents a box! Can you believe that? Seventeen cents, for a whole box of rice!" Darry shook his head, but not in a good way, and I suddenly realized we'd gotten off track. "Okay," I conceded, "let's just say I like cooking. Do you thing I want to necessarily do it all the time?"

He gave me a tired look. "Sarah, why are you doing this now? It's after five, and I'd like to take a quick nap before my shift tonight. Can we talk about who does what later on? As in, after dinner?"

I pulled two cans of corn out of a bag – seven cents a can! – and nodded. "Sure. After dinner."

After dinner, Ponyboy and Soda both left, so I jumped right back into my conversation with Darry. "So I was thinking that we should all cook sometimes. I don't think it's fair for me to do it all the time."

Darry rubbed the side of his head with his palm. "Sarah, you volunteered to do the cooking. You said you liked it. You wanted practice, remember?"

"Practice?"

He shrugged. "For when you get married."

I gasped. "M . . . Married? I'm only thirteen!"

"Well, sure, you're not getting married next week. But after secretary school -"

"Stop!" I could almost feel the bile rising in my throat. "Secretary school?" Not that there's anything wrong with secretaries. I just didn't want to _be_ one.

Darry got up to put his dishes in the sink, then turned around to look at me like he was gazing upon an alien. An annoying alien. "What in the world is wrong with you? You've been talking about being a secretary since you were eight years old!"

Right. I've got a past that I know nothing about. "But what about college?"

By the look on Darry's face, you'd think I had just set a forty-pound bag of wet concrete across his shoulders. Something like defeated sympathy crossed his eyes. "Honey, I cannot pay for you and Ponyboy both to go to college. You know that. Besides, what would you go to college for?"

"Rockets!" I blurted out. "I'd like to be a rocket scientist." Don't even ask me where that one came from; it had never even entered my mind before that instant.

Darry gave me a skeptical look and turned the faucet on. "Sarah, you failed math last year. You need to be good at math for that kind of stuff."

"Alright, maybe something different then. But how come Ponyboy can go, and not me?"

Apparently that was about the simplest question in the world. "Because he'll be the head of a household," Darry reasoned. "Ponyboy will have to support a family someday. Whereas you . . . ."

"Will get married when I'm nineteen, raise three kids, and get a clock from my husband's place of employment when he retires fifty-some years from now." I was starting to get the picture. I also realized I had just added a whole new dimension of worry to Darry's overbooked schedule. And that was definitely not the way to get on his good side, which was what I needed right then. "You know," I said matter-of-factly, "I think being a secretary will be fun after all. I like to type."

Darry seemed to breathe a little easier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"So, what do you do at this job?"

Darry pulled his shirt over his head and smoothed back his damp hair. "The machine shop? We make things."

"Oh." That wasn't vague at all. "What kinds of things?" I was sitting on the edge of the coffee table watching Darry get ready for work while we waited for one of the neighbors, Mrs. Arben, to come and _babysit_ me. Just the thought of being babysat made me want to puke.

Darry pulled out a dining room chair and sat down to pull on his boots. The smell of soap and shampoo wafted over to me. "We make all kinds of things, but mostly metal parts for machinery. Companies place orders, tell us what they need, and we cut and weld and assemble for them."

"Yeah? That's cool. And you'll be back . . . ." I was doing a lot of trailing off and hand waving just to get people to fill in all the blanks for me. They were going to start thinking I was losing my mind or something.

"I'll be done at midnight. They squeezed me in for a half-shift tonight, with all the work going on for the . . . ." Darry took a look at my vacant expression. "Nevermind." He stood up, rolled his shoulders around, and tapped my nose with his finger on his way to the door. "Be good for Mrs. Arben. She likes talking to you."

I stood up. "Have I ever, like, _not_ , been good for Mrs. Arben?"

He peeked out the front curtain before turning back to me. "I would hope not. I'd understand if you weren't, though," he added in a near-mumble.

#

"You're still up? Yoo-hoo. Sarah?" Darry's hand swiped in front of my face.

"Huh?" Had he actually said yoo-hoo? Was that something tough people said?

"I think you should go get in your bed," he suggested.

I sat bolt upright. "No! I mean, no. I'm fine." I looked over at the clock on the wall. It was half past midnight. Apparently I'd fallen asleep on the couch, and Darry had just gotten home from work. Mrs. Arben, The World's Biggest Gossiping Chatterbox, was nowhere in sight. She had spent most of the evening talking on the phone while I played solitaire on the coffee table.

Darry was looking at me like he wanted to say something, but thought it would come out rude or tacky. You know: the look people give you when you have spinach between your teeth, or mascara on your cheek, or . . . or drool running out of your mouth toward your chin. I wiped my sleeve across my mouth and pretended I wasn't about ready to crawl into the cushions. "Um . . . how about a game or something?"

Darry looked like he was about to laugh. He shook his head instead and dropped his wallet and keys on the phone table. "Pick up the playing cards before you leave the room," he told me in a bored warning tone, like he was only saying it because it was his duty.

I took my time gathering up the cards so I could think, and I tossed out some small talk while I was at it to keep me on Darry's good side. "How was work?" I asked, and then shifted my brain from listening mode to thinking mode while he told me something about work.

I figured Ponyboy and Johnny must be getting back from the movies soon, but Ponyboy had never mentioned in the book what time it was when they got to the lot. Figure the movie starts around eight, two movies show, so four hours at most, but if Darry was going crazy by two in the morning it must have been at least an hour after he was expecting Ponyboy, and the stars had noticeably shifted by the time Pony woke up . . . .

"I think I see somebody over in the lot," I said, peering out the front curtains.

Darry stepped out of the kitchen with a glass of milk. "What?"

"The lot," I repeated. "Someone is over there."

"How can you possibly see the lot from here?" Darry asked, coming over to kneel on the couch beside me. "It's not even over that way."

I quickly pretended I had just been rotating my neck around, like when you fall asleep on the couch and get a kink and can hardly move your head to the right without a shooting pain driving through your shoulder. At least I knew they had aspirin in the medicine cabinet. "No, I was talking about over there," I said. "See?" I'm positive that the only thing Darry could see through the front window was our reflections, because that's the only thing I could see, but I had to keep at it if I wanted him to believe me. "Over there. Hey . . . maybe it's Ponyboy and Johnny!" I said in the tone I would have used if I thought I had just spotted Johnny Depp sauntering by.

Darry still looked skeptical and was possibly questioning why I even cared if they were out at the lot in the first place.

"It's really cold out," I went on chattering, "and you know, I'm pretty sure Ponyboy didn't wear his jacket."

Darry shrugged. "He's a big boy. If he's cold and he can't think to come home and get warm, that's his problem."

"Well," I reasoned, "maybe Johnny doesn't want to come. You know how he is about making anyone feel put out," I said, hoping I was right. "Maybe Ponyboy is trying to convince Johnny to come over our house instead of sleeping in the lot," I added, figuring it didn't hurt to make Pony look like he was doing something sensible, thereby moving us even farther from the yell-hit-run scenario.

I could see the wheels turning in Darry's head at that one. "I did hear his parents going at it on my way by," he admitted.

"Great!" I said, maybe a little too excited, so I toned it down some. "I mean, maybe we should go out there and get them. Johnny will listen to you, right? And I'll make some hot chocolate. It'll be fun! Just like when mom was alive," I finished, not really knowing why I said it – but what kid doesn't have memories of mom pouring hot chocolate on a cold day? – and something like a wistful longing crossed Darry's face.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Sure. Let's go see if it's them. It's almost time for Ponyboy to be home anyway."

I slid into my shoes and pulled my jacket on to follow Darry out the front door. "I can't believe you saw them from our front window," Darry marveled again once we were in sight of them, even glancing back to look at his – our – house.

Johnny looked kind of surprised to see us come walking up. Ponyboy shot me an infuriated look.

"Hi!" I greeted. "We thought you might want to come back to the house for some hot chocolate."

"We're just talking here," Ponyboy explained, glancing warily at Darry. "I'll be home soon."

"But it's cold," I insisted.

"It's not that cold," Ponyboy said, teeth chattering.

Johnny was looking between us like he was getting uncomfortable. "It's alright, Pone, we can go back -"

"But we were talking," Pony insisted through clenched teeth.

"You can talk inside," Darry pointed out sensibly. "Let's go."

"But I still have twenty minutes before curfew," Ponyboy said in a last-ditch effort to keep things on track.

Johnny stood up. "You know, some hot chocolate does sound good, man."

I gave Ponyboy a victorious look, and he hauled himself up off the ground to follow a few steps behind us.

 _Had I won?_ Had it really been that easy?

#

The four of us filed into the house, where I rushed into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate which, I realized suddenly, I had no idea how to make. They didn't have any of those little packet things with the dehydrated marshmallows in them. All I could find was cocoa powder. Well, chocolate is chocolate, right? I dumped some into a saucepan with some milk and heated it up.

"So how was the movie?" I asked five minutes later, shuffling into the dining room with a teetering tray full of steaming mugs.

Ponyboy gave a disgruntled shrug while Johnny reddened, but gave a slight smile.

"Did anything exciting happen?" I urged. "I mean, did you meet any girls or anything?"

Pony, still not looking at me, rolled his eyes, Darry looked kind of amused, and Johnny gave me a questioning look. But in a nice way. I think. Jeez, he really did look tough. I mean, if I hadn't read the book, I might have thought he was just as likely to mug me as hug me.

"We met a couple girls," Johnny admitted after what I would classify as an awkward pause. "They were –"

"Gah!" Darry sputtered, wiping hot chocolate off his chin with a napkin and then setting the mug down with a repulsed clunk. "Sarah, I think you left something out," he told me.

Ponyboy, looking suddenly interested, leaned forward and took a tentative sip, which resulted in a reaction similar to Darry's, only Ponyboy actually spit some of his drink out in an arching spray. "Didn't you put any sugar in this?" he demanded in a tone that was far too accusing for something as trivial as hot chocolate.

I waved a dismissive hand and turned my attention back to Johnny. "I don't remember. So Johnny, did you –"

"I left something in the lot," Ponyboy cut in.

I glared at him. "No you didn't."

He glared back. "Yes, I did." He turned to Darry, who was shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into his mug in an apparent attempt to rectify my mistake. "Darry, Sarah and I are taking a walk back to the lot to get my cigarettes."

Darry didn't bother looking up. "Don't stay out there. Just get them, get back, and go to bed." He glanced up. "Johnny, go ahead and get a blanket from my room; take the couch."

Ponyboy threw on his jacket, then took me by the arm and nearly dragged me out the front door. "Ow!" I yelped when my ankle twisted off the bottom step. "Slow down!"

His grip on my arm tightened, and I swear he sped up. "You just _had_ to mess everything up," he said as soon as he'd hauled me halfway to the lot.

"What? What's messed up?" He stopped and turned to face me when I yanked my arm out of his grip. "This can be a romance. Why not, right? It doesn't have to be messed up. Or the Socs can jump somebody else, and the rumble can still . . . what?"

Ponyboy was shaking his head, his expression hard. "You just don't get it, do you? It's not even worth telling if it's the same-old same-old. It's just not good enough for a story. And that's what you _want_ , isn't it? A story that's worthy of being told?" He took a step closer to me, and I realized he was kind of taller than I'd realized, and the closeness combined with the expression on his face was intimidating. Forgetting for a second that Ponyboy was sensitive and harmless, I took an almost involuntary step backwards. "It doesn't really matter, though, does it?" he said, leaning in so close I could smell the chocolate on his breath. "It doesn't matter what you think should happen. Because as of right now, Sarah Jean Curtis, you're out of chapters."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The silence between us was so complete, the sudden chirp of a cricket from a nearby shrub was like the blast from a steamboat.

 _A story that's worthy of being told._ Ponyboy was right. I was there to tell a story. Or was I? I had let down the one person I wanted to impress the most, but did it matter? "Johnny is _alive_ ," I said. To my surprise, tears welled up, and my voice cracked when I spoke again in a choked whisper. "Johnny doesn't have to die."

Ponyboy's expression softened a little, though he gave his head a slight shake. "People die, Sarah. It's a part of life."

"But it doesn't have to be! Not if I can help it. There wasn't enough time for him." Didn't he see? Johnny didn't have enough time. Forget the story; Johnny didn't have enough time.

"He died a hero," Ponyboy said, his tone gentle but firm. "When Johnny died, he was ready to go. He did all he'd ever needed to do in this world. He was ready, Sarah."

I wiped my eyes and turned around, embarrassed that I had started crying. "Well, maybe _I_ wasn't ready for him to die." I sniffled and swallowed and gave a shrug. "I guess this is it then, huh? I failed your little test. I didn't make a story, I don't have a plot, and I'm out of chapters. I did exactly what you told me not to do." I turned and looked him in the eye. "Which I'm not sorry about, by the way. And I never will be."

To my surprise, Ponyboy smiled. "Okay, Sarah. But before you leave, remember – Johnny _was_ the story. You take away his story, and him and all the kids like him don't have a voice anymore."

Despite knowing that he was right on some level I wasn't ready for, I refused to give in and stop feeling sorry for myself. "You can go ahead and send me back now. Now that I'm a big fat failure." My throat tightened.

"Come on," Ponyboy said after a minute, setting a hand on my shoulder. His grip was strong and warm, and I couldn't help but lean into the safety of it. He guided me forward. "Let's go for a walk."

#

The streets were cold, dark, and quiet. Ponyboy draped an arm around me, allowing his unzippered jacket to stretch across my back. The fog of his breath hung for an instant in the icy air between us when he spoke. "What all do you want to accomplish?"

I stared at him, which made me trip over a crack in the sidewalk where a tree root had pushed upward and warped the pavement. "Accomplish?" I asked after Ponyboy had steadied me. "Like, what do I want to be when I grow up?"

He laughed, which made me bristle a little. "The story. What's this story for? Who're you writing it for? What's the point of it all?"

The point. "I just like to write. I guess. I mean, yeah. I like to write."

"But what's your agenda?" With a slight swagger to the right, Ponyboy let his arm drop off my shoulder as he kicked a rock from the sidewalk into the street.

I had no idea what he was talking about. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

A light breeze sent dry leaves swirling across the empty road. "How do I explain this?" Ponyboy asked nobody in particular. "Okay – look at it this way: every character in a book has their own story goin' on. Their own perspective. You dig? The story you're writing is just the one that focuses on your main character. So, if you're the main character, what's your story? What's important to you? What is it you want _most in the world_ that you can't seem to get?" Ponyboy looked down at me. "Once you know that, you can figure out what's stopping you from getting what you want, and what – if anything – you're gonna do about it."

My brain was spinning. I wanted . . . I had no idea what I wanted. "I just wanted to hang out with the guys in the book I read. You know – I wanted to be a part of what they had."

He shook his head and turned around to lean against the hood of a parked car. "No. That ain't it."

I thought for a second. "Okay. Okay, I've got it. What I wanted most in the world was to keep Johnny from dying. To, you know, change it so he didn't die." I was proud of my epiphany until Ponyboy shook his head again after a few seconds of consideration.

"No," he said, and my pride deflated into a puddle of confusion. "No. That ain't it, either."

I watched Ponyboy dig a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and place it between his lips. He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a match, lit it on the bottom of his shoe, and, cupping his hand around the flame, set it against the end of the cigarette. His hair, having not seen a comb or more grease in hours, fell in unruly wisps across his forehead. He watched me, waiting.

The staring got me feeling awkward. For no apparent reason, I was all of a sudden acutely aware of my gangly legs, my slight overbite, my too-small boobs, my too-big middle. Even rumpled, Ponyboy radiated strength and beauty. For the first time, as I stood there withering in self-consciousness, I saw in Ponyboy a certain gentle grace that was familiar and comfortable to me.

And he was still waiting for me to tell him what was important to me.

"I don't know," I admitted with a defeated sigh. "I don't know what's important to me. I have no idea what I want."

He gave a slight shrug. "It's alright. Sometimes, you don't figure out til the end of the story what it's all about. Even when it's your own story." He tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his shoe. "Come on. Let's keep walking."

#

The moon shone bright as we walked, so it didn't matter that it was the middle of the night or that some of the street lights weren't working. After an hour, I had no idea where we were or how far we had walked, but I figured Ponyboy was keeping track.

We talked about everything – his parents, my family, the music we liked, the friends we had, our favorite foods, what we loved, what scared us – _everything_. That hour might just as well have stretched into years for as much as we talked.

"There's a lot of rabbits around here," I said after the hundredth or so brown fuzzball hopped across our path.

Ponyboy gave a distracted wave of his hand. "Plot bunnies," he explained. "It's an introduced species. They breed like crazy, and that's on top of all the ones that get brought in every day." His face brightened and he took on a renewed energy. "Come on," he said, apparently struck with inspiration. He took me by the hand and quickened his pace. "There's something I want to show you!"

I was out of breath by the time we got to the alley Ponyboy had dragged me off to. It was dark and creepy, but he strode through with the confidence of a panther prowling the jungle, so I followed. "Here," he finally said, kneeling down next to the back shed of a house that looked abandoned. Ponyboy rolled a huge rock out of the way with a grunt, reached under the shed, and lugged out a pillowcase-sized cloth bag that had a drawstring at the top.

"What is it?" I couldn't imagine what Ponyboy would be hiding in a bag under an old shed.

He pulled open the drawstring, flipped the bag over, and dumped the contents onto the ground between us. "Well?"

"Wow! I . . . where did you _get_ all this stuff?" There were cell phones, CDs, DVDs, iPods, a bag of microwave popcorn, a Poland Spring bottle (still full of water), a copy of _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ – it went on and on.

Ponyboy sifted through the pile with a look of proud affection. "It's my bag of anachronisms. People bring this kind of stuff into stories all the time, so naturally some of it gets left behind. Cool, huh?" He had pulled a CD out of its case and was admiring the gleam of the moonlight on its mirrored surface.

"What's this?" I picked a worn, wrinkled piece of paper from the ground near the pile and gently unfolded it.

Ponyboy leaned over to have a look. "Huh. I don't know. I don't remember putting that one in. Somebody must've dropped it."

"It looks like a map." There were lines that clearly looked like roads, but it had been hand-drawn in ink and labeled in fancy writing, like calligraphy.

Ponyboy leaned in so we were both hunched over the paper. "It does look like a map," he agreed. "Wait." He took the side of the map and rotated it in my hand, turning his head in the opposite direction. "Yeah. Yeah, look – this could be the railroad tracks." His finger traced a narrow, ladder-shaped line, and then he pointed toward the houses on the other side of the alley. "Over there. See?" He pointed to the map again. "These big rectangles could be the warehouses where they unload the trains."

"But what does it say? This is all gibberish. I mean, except for the money signs in the corner."

"I wonder what this arrow is for." Ponyboy set the map on his thigh and smoothed it out, then took a closer look. "It is an arrow, right? Here inside this warehouse?"

I squinted at the map. "I don't suppose you've got a Maglite in that bag."

"A what?"

"Forget it. No, wait, look!" I reached into the pile and pulled out a bright red mini-mag light. "Perfect." I twisted the front, and the map was illuminated by a cool bright circle of LED light.

The largest rectangle on the map was the only one that had what looked like a floor plan sketched on it, with maybe steps, doorways, and other rectangles inside of it. There was a stairway along one wall of the rectangle, right next to what appeared to be a wide doorway. There was also a square inside of the rectangle that looked to be another stairway, and right under that was the mark Ponyboy had been talking about. "It does look like an arrow," I agreed, "but there's nothing there. I mean, unless . . . ." Thinking about the way I wrap up the first page of a letter when there's still more to say, I turned the map over. "Look, there's more on the back."

Ponyboy leaned in so close, his hair brushed against my cheek. "Is that supposed to be a waterfall or something? There's no waterfall around here."

The mournful wail of a train whistle called out from a few miles away.

Ponyboy turned toward the sound. "Shoot," he said, scooping all his anachronisms into the sack and stuffing it back under the shed, "it's real late. We'd better get back now." Ponyboy stood up and extended an arm to me, so I stuffed the flashlight in my pocket, took his hand, and let him pull me to standing. "Guess we're just about done here. We'll figure out how to send you back as soon as we're home."

A little stricken by Ponyboy's words – our time together was almost over – I followed along a few paces behind. Not that I was being overly slow or anything, but he was kind of speeding along, and his pace didn't exactly match the sullen mood I'd drifted into.

Ponyboy turned right at the end of the alley, onto a side street. "We'll cut through the train yard. It'll be faster."

The flatbeds and towering metal box cars, humongous replicas of the set we displayed under our Christmas tree every year, stretched alongside of us like great sleeping snakes. It was the first time I'd been that close to a train, and I was amazed at how big the wheels were. A disturbing image of one of those wheels cutting across a person ran through my mind. I moved up closer to Ponyboy with a shiver.

"Scared of ghosts?" he said with a grin. "Hey, watch out for that puddle."

I looked down at my soaking wet saddle shoe. "Guh."

He shook his head. "I sure ain't taking you on any secret missions, Sarah," Ponyboy teased. "Can't even walk through a train yard without stomping through puddles. You're worse than a little kid."

"It wasn't my fault." I shook my foot like a disgusted cat as we walked along. "If you had-"

I stopped talking when Ponyboy held his hand up and froze, listening.

"What-" I whispered, but stopped again when Ponyboy indicated with a glare that he would do something to make me sorry if I kept talking.

After a few seconds, he relaxed a little, but kept his voice at a whisper. "I think it was just-"

And that was the last thing he said before the world around us exploded.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for the reviews! This story is finished other than a few last edits on the later chapters (and it's a short one, only 11 chapters), so it'll be coming two or three chapters a day until it's all up. Enjoy!

 **Chapter 6**

Okay, so apparently it wasn't actually the entire world that exploded. But when it's all quiet and you're jumpy and anxious, pretty much any loud noise that shakes the ground and sends things flying is going to make you think that the earth just got cut in half by a massive meteor.

Somehow, Ponyboy and I were on the ground, flat on our stomachs. My arms were crunched against my chest, hands by my chin, and my skirt was – I realized in horror – flipped up over my back. I couldn't even remember falling.

And then, for a second, I thought some magical force had been unleashed that was making the Earth push me away from itself. Then I realized Ponyboy was pulling me to my feet by my jacket.

"Come on," he shouted, "before the-"

And again, another explosion, this one right behind us. We stumbled forward, but had enough momentum to keep running.

My eyes burned and watered from the smoke, so when Ponyboy wrapped his hand around mine, I closed my eyes and let him drag me along. Around us, the heat and noise of the fire closed in.

"Hey," Ponyboy shouted, so I squinted my eyes open just enough to see that he was calling to a man up ahead of us. To our left and behind us were burning rubble and train parts, to the right was the side of a warehouse, and in front of us, clear air and the shadowy figure of the man Ponyboy had called to.

"What's he doing?" I said, because the man had whipped around to face us and was pulling something out from under his shirt.

Ponyboy stopped short, yanking me backwards when I didn't match his change in momentum. "Shoot," he said, and just as he pulled me toward the warehouse, that's exactly what the man did.

" _Was that a gun?"_ I was indignant. Was some random stranger trying to murder me in my own story? "Did he just _shoot_ at us?"

"In here," Ponyboy said, blatantly ignoring my rhetorical question.

The warehouse we bolted into was lit only by the red glow of the exit sign above our heads, but the smoke hadn't seeped into it yet. Ponyboy pulled on the door behind us and ran frantic hands around the edges. "No lock," he reported.

My heart pounded a rapid status report that it repeated over and over: We're screwed. We're screwed. _We'rescrewed we'rescrewed we'rescrewed._ "There's nowhere to go," I whispered.

As we stumbled through the warehouse, my eyes adjusted enough to keep me from colliding with the randomly placed crates and boxes. Somewhere behind us, a momentary increase in light and the whoosh of a pressure change told us the man with the gun had come through the door.

Sure enough, he announced his presence. "Come on out now, kids, I ain't gonna hurt ya'. Ain't noplace to go in here anyhow."

Yeah, okay.

The two of us ducked behind crates and slid alongside boxes in a constant dance of avoidance. The shooter made it easy at first as he tried to coerce us out of hiding. Within moments, though, he got smart and shut his mouth. I shadowed Ponyboy's silhouette like a calf teetering behind its mom.

After a silent minute of creeping around, Ponyboy held up his hand, and we stopped. I got the idea pretty quick that he had lost track of where the guy was. The hair on the back of my neck stood up when I realized he could be right around the next corner. I imagined what it might feel like to have a bullet rip through my chest. Did it hurt right before you died? Did anybody really ever die _instantly_?

It was just when Ponyboy waved a hand to me to follow him again that I noticed the stairs up ahead, right in the middle of one of the long walls. There was a huge metal door just to the right of the stairs.

I grabbed Ponyboy's hand and pointed when he looked at me.

"He'll see us if we go up," he whispered.

I shook my head. "The map," I whispered back. "We're in the map."

An instant later, it must have clicked, because Ponyboy's face registered sudden understanding.

"The steps," I said. "From the map." I was talking about the other steps - the ones that disappeared through a square somewhere to our left. It seemed like the only things to our left, though, were boxes and crates.

Ponyboy motioned with his head for me to follow him, as if there was even the vaguest possibility that I would decide to wander off on my own.

It seemed like we were heading in the general direction of where the second stairway should be, but all we kept finding around every corner were more boxes and crates. I was just about to comment that maybe we were going the wrong way when Ponyboy froze in that way that screams _imminent danger_.

And then, I saw - the silhouette of a man was directly ahead of us, just across the aisle we'd been creeping through.

It took a slight wave of dizziness for me to realize that I was holding my breath, and then to realize that the guy wasn't facing us. He was slinking along, just like we had been, in the same direction as us, and it didn't look like he had any idea we were right behind him.

With tremendous effort, I fought down the overwhelming urge to turn around and run the other way. Instead, I followed in Ponyboy's footsteps, almost literally, as he crept along like a cat tiptoeing up to a mouse. The only sounds were the muffled roar of the burning trains outside, and the sirens in the distance.

As soon as we got to the corner, we both took a big step to get out of view of the guy. Only thing was, if we started off in another direction, we would lose track of him again. Next time, we might not be so lucky. And if we came face-to-face with him . . . well, I knew a little something about guns from one of my uncles, and at close range, with me right behind Ponyboy, the guy wouldn't even have to waste more than one bullet on us.

Ponyboy must have had the same thought, because instead of putting distance between us and Gun Man, he waited until the guy had turned the corner, then moved along parallel to the aisle the guy was in.

After only a few minutes of this reverse bear hunt, a looming crate had me stopping and staring upward. I reached out and took hold of Ponyboy's arm.

When he turned, I pointed, wrapped my hand around the back of his neck for leverage, and leaned in so close to his ear, I could smell his shampoo through the Pomade. "This crate," I said in a breeze of a whisper, "doesn't look normal." It was too big, too well constructed, too . . . _permanent_ looking, to just be a crate.

After a quick survey of the crate, Ponyboy nodded and started running his hands around the edges. He gestured me over and breathed into my ear, "Maybe there's a door."

So he was thinking the same thing I was - this could be where the other staircase was.

The two of us were so intent on exploring the crevices of the wooden structure, we almost didn't notice the approaching footsteps. From both sides of the crate. Ponyboy and I gave each other the same startled look when we apparently hit the same conclusion at the same time - Gun Man had a partner.

As our frantic fingers flew over the surface of the crate, I started shaking so hard my teeth chattered. My breath came in gasps that I was sure were echoing through the whole warehouse. Ponyboy, while working just as desperately as I was, managed to keep his hands steady and his movements precise.

An instant later, just before the footsteps made it to our aisle, part of the crate's side pivoted from its center like one of those bookcases in movies about haunted houses. Without a second thought, I ducked into the opening right behind Ponyboy, and the wall behind us closed.

I used to think I knew what the term _pitch black_ meant, but until that moment, I guess I didn't. The darkness was so deep, it was like gazing with useless eyes into the starless end of the universe.

"I'll," - was the only thing Ponyboy said before there was a scraping sound, and I felt an abrupt and eerie sense of emptiness in front of me. I swiped out with my arm (which, I realized, would have given Ponyboy a good bruise on the ribs if he had actually still been there), but he was gone.

"Po-," was the only thing I managed to say as I slid my left foot forward, and the world disappeared from beneath me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Other than the bruise I got on my spine from whacking my back on the top of the . . . let's just call it a slide, it wasn't such a bad way to travel in a downward direction. In fact, it was a bizarre combination of something out of a movie, and one of the tube rides I'd been on at the water park the previous summer.

Yeah, that was it: it was like a water slide, but without the water, and it probably would have been awesome if I hadn't been concerned that we'd be rocketing out into a pit of lava or a bottomless hole when we reached the end. Ponyboy was maybe two body lengths in front of me, and I kept having visions of watching him poof into flames and become a pile of ash just milliseconds before I encountered the same fate.

As the underworld whooshed and twisted past at about six thousand miles per hour, I started being able to see more than blackness. The light, I decided reasonably, must have been coming from the glow of the lava down below. Only, I was expecting it to have more of an orangy or red tint to it. Whatever. I was about to die before my story, which still didn't actually have a plot or a point to it, was over.

When my body picked up speed in what appeared to be the final leg of the journey, I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to watch Ponyboy (who I'd gotten kind of attached to) vaporize.

Despite my neurotic misgivings, Ponyboy landed on cool, solid ground not five seconds later; I know that because with a grunt, I landed on top of him. "Sorry." I rolled aside, and Ponyboy took my upper arm to haul me to my feet.

While Ponyboy brushed himself off, I turned back to look at the exit of the slide thingy which, incidentally, looked almost exactly like the one I'd been on the previous summer, only without the trickle of water dribbling out or the pool at the bottom. "Wow," I said. "That was-"

"Cliché?" Ponyboy said. "Incredibly predictable and overused?"

"Uh . . . no." I brushed some dirt off my skirt and legs. "I was thinking it was really cool, right? I mean, except that I thought we were going to die at the end, which I guess made it not as fun. But if that wasn't the case, it would have been pretty freaking amazing. Don't you think?"

Ponyboy gave me an odd look and shook his head. "Whatever. Alls I know is that I landed on my knee and it's killing me." He bent over to rub at his knee.

"Whoa - look at that rock!"

Ponyboy stood up and twisted around to look at the shimmery rock I was pointing at. "So?"

With a shake of my head, I ducked past him and picked up the rock for closer inspection. "Just look at it, Ponyboy. Look at all the colors. Isn't it amazing?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Amazing. A rock."

Some people. "My grandpa," I told him, "brought back a rock from every place he visited. All over the world!" I added when Ponyboy didn't look impressed.

"So he went all over the world to collect rocks?"

"No, no. He didn't _go_ places to collect rocks. It was just kind of an added bonus. He was a writer, too. Kind of like you want to be, only he had enough money to travel around and stuff so he could do research for his books and novels. He even took my sisters and all of my different cousins on trips over the years when they were teenagers," I went on. "Just one-on-one, he took each of them to some really cool place for a week or two, just so they could spend time together and explore different parts of the world. I haven't had a chance yet because, you know, I couldn't go last summer. I got sick and all." Ponyboy raised his eyebrows at me. I slipped the rock into the pocket of my skirt. "Anyway, he liked to bring back rocks to remember the trips. I think he'll really like this one."

With another subtle shake of his head, Ponyboy bent at the waist to rub his knee again.

"Oh my God," I said, which made Ponyboy stand back up, "duck!"

Instantly, Ponyboy dropped to the floor.

I looked down at him. "What're you doing on the ground again?"

He gave me an indignant look. "You told me to duck!"

I shook my head and pointed up ahead. "No, no. Duck as a noun, not as a verb. Duck! Look, see? A duck! How do you think it got in here? Maybe we should follow it." The startled waterfowl was watching us with a wary eye and kind of side-stepping back the way it had come.

Ponyboy let out a tired breath and hauled himself to his feet once again. "Fantastic. A duck."

"It's better than a guy with a gun," I pointed out.

The three of us stood there for several seconds watching each other. Well, it was more like me and Ponyboy stood there watching the duck watching us.

"It has to move," Ponyboy finally whispered, "in order for us to follow it. I think this is pointless."

Just then, the duck must have decided we weren't going to make dinner out of him, because he turned and waddled down the tunnel.

"See?" I said. "No problem. Moving duck. Let's go."

#

We ended up following the duck for not too long. I mean, it wasn't like forever or anything. Well . . . .

"Holy cow," Ponyboy groaned, "where the heck's it taking us? China? That's it, right? We're gonna' end up heading straight through the center of the earth and walking out some abandoned mine shaft in China." He mopped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and, after an instant of consideration, wiped the back of his hand on my shirt. 

"Hey!"

"What? Ain't like you're all sanitary or anything."

He was right - my hair was a mess, my clothes were filthy, my shirt was untucked, and I overall looked like somebody who had been pushed down a slide made of earth, rolled in the dirt, and spent the past forty minutes hiking through The Humid Cave of No Return with a mallard as a guide. I rubbed the sweat off my own forehead and tried to wipe it on Ponyboy's shirt, but he arched away from me and I ended up hitting the slimy wall instead.

"This sucks," I said. The only saving grace, and even Ponyboy had had to admit it, even though we'd had to guide ourselves through some of the dark tunnels with our hands on the walls for about ten minutes, was that I had finally remembered there was a flashlight in my pocket. "It would be nice if we could at least find something to tell us what the heck-"

"Shh," Ponyboy said, holding up one hand. I practically held my breath as he tilted his head and ear in the direction we'd been walking. "Do you hear that?" he whispered.

I did the same head-tilt-ear-turn thing, as if that would make me hear better. After a couple of seconds, though, I nodded. "Voices," I whispered.

He nodded.

We spent a few seconds going back and forth with eye contact communication, complete with raising eyebrows and eye narrowing and widening, and hand gestures - _do we go back? There's nothing back there. Should we try to get closer? If we can do it quietly. Do we have any other options? No._

Ponyboy and I were just about to reach a silent agreement (I think the plan was to summersault along the hallway with our fingers in our ears, though it's possible I may have misinterpreted some of Ponyboy's raised eyebrows and hand motions) when somebody in the direction of the voices let out a shout of frustration. "It's not _there_ ," boomed a man's voice. "Don't _tell_ me I don't know what I'm talkin' about."

No longer in need of communication, Ponyboy and I pressed our backs against the wall. The duck, apparently having decided that we were some sort of mismatched but acceptable flock, was content to preen its feathers while Ponyboy and I stood waiting to be discovered and, subsequently, murdered.

Nobody came wandering up the hallway, though, and the voices continued at a quieter volume. Ponyboy gingerly leaned away from the wall, listened, and motioned me to follow him.

We crept up the hallway until there was just enough light up ahead that I could turn off the flashlight. Now, for the first time, the tunnel branched off in two directions, and a faint light emanated from some kind of grid on the ceiling. Mingled with the light were the voices.

"- half the place burning," one man's voice said.

"Hey," said another, "I told you it wasn't my fault. The blasted thing was rigged."

"Well," came a third agitated voice, "if we don't find that loot, we might as well change our names and move to Mexico, because Jonas'll kill us."

I caught Ponyboy's gaze with a questioning look; he shrugged and put his finger to his lips as if he thought I was about to break into a song and dance routine. I mouthed _what?_ and he mouthed back _be quiet_ , so I mouthed _I was_. And then the guys started talking again.

"You know," one of them said," who's to say that loot's not, you know … already gone." There was a brief pause. "Like, who's to say it didn't get stolen, and Jonas would never know who done it."

"Are … are you sayin' what I think you are?" another one of the three said. "You saying we should …." He didn't finish his sentence.

"No," the last one said. "No way. There is no way I'm gonna mess with Jonas. You guys are nuts."

"He'd never know," contestant number two said (by this point I was feeling like somebody in that old TV game show where a girl has to figure out which guy she wants to go out with by talking to them from behind a curtain so she can't tell which ones are ugly). Based on voice alone, I was pulling for contestant number three. The other two sounded like they were barely evolved past primate stage.

There was a short pause before contestant number three spoke again. "Rigged, huh? You know what I think?" Nobody said anything, so he went on. "I think if we want to find that money, we need to go down to the tunnels. I'm thinkin' somebody got to those two million bucks before you did, found a way into the tunnels, and blew the place up to cover their tracks. They must've been not two steps ahead of you."

"Hey," Contestant number one said, "those kids! There were two kids by the tracks, and they disappeared in the warehouse. You think they took the money?"

Ponyboy's startled expression probably mirrored my own.

"Whatever," number three said. "You two get down there, and you scour every damn vein of those tunnels until you find that money. And you get rid of anyone you find down there. Permanently, and without a trace."


	8. Chapter 8

I had to stop what I was doing and sit down to get the editing finished on this chapter so I could get it posted ASAP for fanfar3. Hope you like it!

 **Chapter 8**

It wasn't that long before I was out of breath. Being unsure where those guys planned to enter the tunnels we were in, and having no idea how to get out of them, we had decided to keep moving forward and hope we lucked out and found an exit.

"I'm starving," Ponyboy said about an hour later. Our hair was damp with perspiration from both the pace we were keeping and the humidity level of the caves, we were both out of breath, and we had come across at least four junctures where we'd had to decide between two or three different pathways each time. Finally, we'd gotten to a place where one of the tunnel choices actually had light coming out of it, instead of just the light from our flashlight going into it. The only weird thing was that the lit-up tunnel seemed to lead downward, while the dark one had an upward incline.

Before we'd made a decision, our loyal duck buddy, wings flapping in haphazard joy, waddle-galloped down the left tunnel toward the light.

With a shrug and not another word, Ponyboy and I followed the duck.

"Can you imagine," I said as we walked, "what it would be like to actually find the money those guys were talking about? I mean, what you and Darry and Sodapop could do with-"

"Now just stop right there," Ponyboy cut in. "Me and Darry and Sodapop are doing just fine. Last thing we need is some dirty money bloodying up our lives."

"But two million-"

"Two million problems. Yeah, no thanks. Money's great for gettin' your needs met, but having too much ain't always so great either." He stopped to turn back to me. "Or did you miss that part of my book?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. Stop being so serious. Just imagine it for a second. I swear to God, if I find a bag full of two million dollars, I'll pretend I never saw it. But for just a second, pretend it's yours. Pretend you can do anything you want. Because you know as much as I do that money in the right hands, and with the right amount of thought put into it, could be an amazing thing. Right?"

My pretend brother grinned at me for a second before he started walking again.

"What?"

He shrugged. "You just surprise me sometimes is all." 

"And that's bad?"

"No, not at all. It's just surprising. Okay, then-two million dollars." He gave it a few more steps before offering up phase one of his OMGmoney plan: "First thing I'd do is pay off the house."

"Okay," I said. "Very sensible so far. How about something a little more un-sensible? Something that screams 'I'm a teenager who has a lot of money'." I wiped away the sweat that had been rolling down to my eyes.

"I'm gettin' there, hang on." Ponyboy, with the spindly legs of a thoroughbred and the grace of a gazelle, leapt over a puddle that spanned the width of the tunnel. "Next," he went on, reaching out to grab my arm as I landed just past halfway over the puddle and splashed water all over both of us, "I'd make Darry quit his job." He got a faraway look for an instant. "Yeah. Darry could walk away, find what he loves to do, and never look back." He blinked then, though, and gave his head a little shake.

"What?"

"I don't know. I guess the thing is, Darry loves working. He just ain't the kind of guy who'd be happy just sitting around all day with nothing to do. You know?"

"Okay," I reasoned, "so Darry can do whatever work he wants. He can go to college, right? Then maybe he can build houses for people who can't afford them. Something like that. Keep going. What else?"

He sighed. "I don't know. I guess I'd want to give a lot to the guys we know. Course," he said with a laugh, "I'd have to give Two-Bit's share to his mom, so she can bail him out of jail when he gets picked up for shoplifting all the stuff he can finally afford to buy, but won't. How about you? You're so smart, what would you do with two million dollars?"

After pausing to think for a second, I licked my lips and swallowed. "It's stupid."

"No it ain't."

When I slowed my pace, Ponyboy slowed down with me. "I'd … I'd find the best doctors in the world to take care of my Grandpa. I'd find somebody who could fix him."

A silence passed between us before Ponyboy spoke again. "The rock guy?"

I nodded, though he was in front of me now. "Yeah. The rock guy."

He paused to wait for me to catch up with him. "So what happened? What's wrong with your grandpa?"

I licked my lips again as my mouth went dry. "Stroke," I managed to say, then cleared my throat. "He had a stroke. He's, uh, not doing too well."

Ponyboy stopped walking and put a hand on my shoulder, waiting for me to look into his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry about your grandpa. And if I had two million dollars and it would fix him for you, I'd give it to you."

I nodded and turned my head away as my eyes blurred. "Thanks."

The sound of quacking, flapping, and splashing jolted us out of the moment, and we both hurried forward just in time to watch the duck disappear through a hole in the ceiling of the water-filled cavern our tunnel had led to. A beam of light shone down from the hole the duck had flown through. More water poured from above in gentle cascades in several places, and below the ceiling hole, there were ledges covered with glimmering metallic circles. The falling water made the glimmering circles even more pronounced as the light from above was caught and reflected hundreds of times over.

Instantly, I was hit with an extreme sense of de ja vou.

We waded into the water to move toward the light only to realize that leading off to our left, behind a waterfall, was another tunnel just above the water level. Wary of any dark corners, we both stopped and cautiously approached it, me leading the way for once.

A few seconds later, I held up my hand to stop Ponyboy from moving past me. "Do you … wait, do you hear that?"

Ponyboy leaned forward with me so we were both another four or five inches closer to the sound. I swear, it actually seemed like it made a difference. "What do you think it is?" he asked.

"Kind of sounds like people. Kind of like people yelling. And …." We looked at each other.

"Screaming?" he suggested at the obvious sound of hysterics that was now being emitted in ever-growing waves from whomever was at the other end of the dark, damp cavern that stood before us.

Things got quiet then for a minute before we heard voices again coming from behind the waterfall. Ponyboy motioned to an area behind the waterfall and to the left, next to the entrance to the tunnel. We both ducked through the cascade of water and pressed ourselves against the jagged wall. Ponyboy reached out and set his arm across me, kind of the way your mom puts her arm across you when she has to slam on the breaks, as if she's going to do a better job than your seatbelt of stopping you from catapulting through the windshield.

My entire body tensed a few seconds later at the sound of footsteps, but instead of coming face to face with one of the lunatics from earlier who was supposed to "get rid of" us, the voice of a boy emerged from just beyond where we could see. "Oh, wow! You guys, look! It's a beautiful waterfall!"

And with that, a bunch of kids around our age, a couple of them carrying lanterns, stepped out of the tunnel.

They were so fascinated by the waterfall at first, they didn't see us standing there watching them. But then I sneezed, and everything went sort of crazy. They screamed, we (or rather, I) screamed, two of them jumped into the pool of water, and three of us slipped and fell. It took a few seconds for everyone to calm down and realize that the only person who seemed the least bit threatening was Ponyboy, who was standing there in some sort of hoodlum ninja pose with his switchblade dangling loosely from his hand.

"Oh jeez, oh jeez," an Asian boy kept saying to me. "So sorry. So sorry I knock you over. Here, let me help." Instead of offering me his hand to help me up, he pressed something on his belt, and a stream of ink hit me square in the chest. "Oh! Oh jeez, so sorry."

Somebody else hauled me up off the ground from behind while the rest of the mismatched crew stopped to figure out what was going on.

"Thanks," I said, and my breath caught in my throat when I turned around and saw his face. All at once, I knew exactly who they were and where my de ja vou had come from. It was the weirdest thing ever, and I was actually speechless for a couple minutes just staring at them all. I mean, I literally could not force any words to come out of my mouth before my brain was done processing all of this.

"Sorry about that," Mouth was saying to Ponyboy, though it was really more like he was talking to Ponyboy's knife, because he hadn't taken his eyes off of it.

Apparently realizing that we weren't being jumped, mugged, or otherwise attacked, Ponyboy took a breath, relaxed, folded up the switchblade, and slid it into his back pocket.

"Do you know how to get out of here?" a girl asked him. I recognized her as Andy, the girl that Brandon liked.

"No!" shouted Mikey, the one who'd first commented on the waterfall before they'd discovered us. "We're not going back. We need to find him! This is _our_ time!"

Immediately, they were all arguing amongst themselves.

"Stop!" Ponyboy shouted in an uncharacteristic display of semi-rage that produced instant silence, at least for a few seconds. I guess they weren't taking any chances with the guy who had the knife. He lowered his voice again. "What are y'all doing here? How did you get here?"

" _Y'all?_ " mimicked the only girl I didn't recognize.

Ponyboy narrowed his eyes and gave her a fake-o grin before clarifying what he knew she already understood. "You. All. What are- _you all-_ doing here?"

"You know, we could say the same to you," Mikey countered.

"You could," Ponyboy agreed, "but you didn't."

I gave Brandon, who was still standing behind me after helping me up, a polite nod and stepped forward because I was pretty sure my voice had been reactivated. I cleared my throat just to be sure. "I think I can clear this up. Sort of." I brushed my slime-coated hand against my skirt and swished at the ink stain on my shirt, which only served to get more slime on my skirt and ink on my hand. "Crud. Anyway. So, yeah. They're looking for One-Eyed Willie. The pirate."

Mikey stared at me. "Wow. How did you know?"

Ponyboy's face was scrunched in confusion. "Who? What?"

I waved my hand in a little circle to try to let Ponyboy know that this was something he should somehow be familiar with. " _The Goonies_. They're from _The Goonies_." Judging by the look on his face, my explanation wasn't helping. "It's a movie," I whispered loudly as if Ponyboy would be the only one to hear me, even though he was standing farther from me than anyone else was. That did the trick, though, and I saw the comprehension in his face.

The girl who had made fun of Ponyboy's accent looked really annoyed. "What are _you_ doing here?" she demanded. Her oblivious comrades had gathered together and were discussing the origin of the handfuls of coins they were scooping up. "And who _are_ you?"

"Look," I said, "things must have gotten a little mixed up. This is my story."

"No," she said, looking me up and down, "it's mine. Where even are you supposed to be from, anyway, dressed like that?"

I licked my lips and tried again. "Look, this is my story, okay? It's _The Outsiders_. It's from-"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh my God, I hated that book. We had to read it in school. It was so stupid."

I'm not ashamed to admit that I was petty enough to bristle a little, and passive aggressive enough to respond with, "I guess not everyone's got the mental fortitude to understand the subtle intricacies of such a groundbreaking and brilliant piece of work. And by the way, where's Stef? Please tell me you didn't get rid of Stef just so you could get it on with Mouth?"

The girl looked horrified. "Mouth? No!" She smiled. "Mikey's the cutie." She leaned in close and lowered her voice, though she did manage to insert a giddy giggle. "Look at him over there. Isn't he just the most adorable thing ever?"

I gave a sympathetic click of my tongue. "You know, he's not really into girls yet."

She glared at me and went back to full volume. "Neither is Ponyboy."

"Touché. But at least _I'm_ supposed to be his sister."

Ponyboy had moved closer and was staring at the girl. "Don't I know you?"

She shrugged and averted her eyes, like all of a sudden there was something really interesting on the cave wall. "No."

He gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember you. You showed up with that other girl with the short blonde hair. The two of you were hanging all over Dally and Tim. You had them tickling you and carrying you around and-"

"That wasn't my fault!" she cried, reddening. "My friend was writing most of it. I was doing it for her!"

Ponyboy gave knowing grin. "Yeah, okay. Sure."

She gritted her teeth. "Your name is stupid."

He outright laughed at that one. "Really? My name is stupid? You were calling yourself Butterfly Lightning Shade."

"Guys," I said, before things could get any more out of control, "whatever happened, we're all in the same story now and we've got to deal with it. So is this, like, a crossover or something? Because if it is, what decade are we in? The 60s or the 80s? What happens when we all get out of these caves? Does the universe, like, implode or something?"

Ponyboy raised his eyebrows and considered for a minute. "Honestly, I'm not sure this has ever happened before." He gave me a pat on the back. "Congratulations, Sarah, you broke fanfiction."

"Shut up."

"Look," Girl said, "I don't care what you two do, as long as you don't mess with my story." She gave Ponyboy a particularly hard stare. "There will be no _stabbing_ of people going on. And no cigarettes. They're gross."

Who did she think she was talking to? "Keep flapping your gums," I told her, "and that 'no stabbing' rule is going straight out the window."

"Alright," Ponyboy said, like he was all of a sudden the voice of reason, "just calm down. Nobody's stabbin' anyone. All we need to know from you," he told Girl, "is whether the tunnel divides up ahead."

She shrugged, as if she had never been off in that direction before in her life.

"You just came from there," Ponyboy reminded her, and when she didn't answer, he continued with, "I guess we can just tag along with you guys then. The way I saw things, it kind of looked like that little Mikey guy over there might have a thing for my sister here anyway."

Girl looked horrified again. "Look, there's nothing back there except the stupid family that's chasing us. Good luck with that."

"Butterfly!" one of the kids called out, and she closed her eyes for a second and pursed her lips. "We need you, Butterfly! We're not sure what we should do next."

"Just get out of my story," she told us, then ducked through the waterfall and joined the Goonies, who clearly couldn't function without her. Seemingly awestruck in her presence, they followed her through another tunnel just past the one we'd come in through. Almost as soon as they'd disappeared, the hole closed up into solid rock like it'd never been there.

Shortly afterward, we heard the faint echoes of an organ.

"So now what?" I asked Ponyboy.

He glanced toward the light coming from the ceiling. "Can't go forward, can't go back. I guess the only choice we've got is up."


	9. Chapter 9

It occurred to me over the weekend that I completely forgot my disclaimer in all of the previous chapters. So, here goes:

 **Disclaimer:** _The Outsiders_ belongs to S.E. Hinton. I am making no profit from this story.

And now, the last four chapters. Thanks for taking the time to read the story!

 **Chapter 9**

It took a lot of grunting, sweating, clawing, pushing, and lifting before we finally got out of that cave, and that only happened after one of us finally noticed there was a ladder just lying there under the water at one end of the cavern. We set it on one of the coin ledges, leaned it up against the mouth of the hole, and climbed up out of the ground.

"Well, that sucked," I announced. We were lying side-by-side in the grass next to the fountain, panting.

"I can't believe those tunnels connected to this fountain," Ponyboy said for the third time. It had taken only a moment of orienting ourselves for him to see that we had, indeed, emerged from the middle of the fountain in the park where Bob had gotten killed in _The Outsiders_. He leaned up on one elbow. "I mean, it doesn't even make any sense. If the middle of the fountain-"

"Don't," I said. "Just don't even try to figure it out. I mean, we met _The Goonies_ down there, for godsake. In tunnels. Under Tulsa, Oklahoma! And for the amount of time we've been gone, it should be, what, like seven in the morning by now? Yet, here we are, middle of the night still. None of this makes any sense."

"Hey, whatta ya know?"

Ponyboy closed his eyes and swore under his breath, and I groaned. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he said.

We both dragged ourselves to our feet to greet a group of boys who I surmised was Bob and Company as they staggered toward us.

Bob gave a too-friendly smile. "Here's one of the little greasers that picked up our—"

"Look," I said, "my uncle owns a bar and pool hall over on Picket and Hamilton. Fifty cent drinks from midnight to closing, and they don't check i.d.s unless you start trouble." It was almost scary how easily I had just spouted out some random made-up nonsense like it was real.

The weird thing was, they all stood there looking like maybe another feasible option had just opened up. "Is that, um, all drinks?" one of them asked. "Or just the fruity girly ones?"

"Hey," came another familiar voice from behind us. "Whatta ya know?"

That time, Ponyboy and I both groaned. "It's contestant number two," I whispered.

Ponyboy looked down at me. " _What?_ " Then he gave his head a slight shake and turned his attention to the two lunatics who had just climbed out of the fountain. "Sorry," he told them, "you're gonna have to stand in line. These gentlemen were here for us first."

Everybody looked confused and wary. Bob was squinting at contestant number two.

The lunatics hadn't taken their eyes off of us for more than an instant. "I believe you two have something we're looking for," one of them said, his tone menacing in that overly-friendly way.

My heart pounded, and I stepped up next to Ponyboy. We were going to die. Those guys were going to kill us, and then they'd probably kill Bob and his friends. I'd come here to stop Johnny from dying, but instead all I'd done was fix it so a whole bunch of other people would get killed instead for no reason at all.

"Dad?" Bob said.

Contestant number two stopped and looked at Bob, whose face was so scrunched up in confusion he was nearly unrecognizable. One of the boys—I assumed he was Randy, based on what he was wearing—gave a little wave. "Hi, Mr. Sheldon."

And all at once, Ponyboy and I were forgotten. We stood there watching as if we were the cameras in one of those ridiculously dramatic reality shows, taking everything in but not interfering.

"Bobby!" contestant … er, Mr. Sheldon, greeted, like they had just bumped into each other at the grocery store. His pants were ripped, his shirt was coated with ash and slime, and he was wading across a fountain in a park at two o'clock in the morning, but it was all just totally normal.

"Dad? What are … what are you doing? What's going on?" Apparently shocked into sobriety, Bob held no trace of a slur in his voice. "What ….?"

Mr. Sheldon reached the edge of the fountain and stepped out onto the sidewalk, a flood of icy water swooshing out with him and splashing me in the leg. I took a step back. "Bobby," he said. "I was just out looking for you! Your mother is worried."

Ponyboy and I exchanged a look, and Mr. Sheldon shot us his own look as if to say, 'go along with this and we'll forget about all that other stuff with the trains and the gun and the money and the tunnels.' Okay, so I tend to read a lot into people's looks. But really, he did look desperate to keep things under wraps.

Ponyboy had realized the same thing. "Lucky for us you heard us calling for help from the fountain and brought us that ladder," he said. "You're like a hero."

"Hero?" Bob repeated. "Fountain?" He glanced over his father's shoulder. "But how can there be a-"

"Let's just all be glad nobody was hurt," Bob's father said, wrapping his soaking wet arm around Bob's shoulder and leading him toward the cars. "We need to get home now and get cleaned up. Maybe Mom will make some hot chocolate."

"Make sure she adds sugar!" I called after them, and Ponyboy jabbed me in the ribs.

There was an awkward moment then when we stood there looking at Bob's friends, and they stood there looking at us, before they finally started retreating in a slightly tipsy, vastly confused jumble.

Ponyboy finally looked at me. "Well, I guess that's that." With a yawn, he stretched his arms over his head.

I raised my eyebrows and sighed. "I guess so."

"We should probably head back to the house."

Cold, wet, and exhausted, we each put an arm around the other, leaned into one another, and started walking. Not too fast, though. In the morning, we'd be sending me home.

#

Outside the window, the late-morning sun shone bright against a deep blue early-autumn sky. Ponyboy and I, after explaining to Darry where the heck we'd been because it was two o'clock in the morning, kiddos (we basically told him we'd fallen asleep in the lot and were sorry and we promised to do all of the laundry the next day), we collapsed into our beds and slept until nearly ten. Johnny had been asleep on the couch, so all of the yelling and apologizing and negotiating had occurred in whispers.

Now, showered and dressed, I sat in the living room watching Johnny yawn and rake his hands through his rumpled hair. He stole a quick glance at me before standing up to fold the blanket he'd been using.

"So," I said, "what now?"

He glanced at me again before focusing back in on the blanket. "What now, what?"

 _What are you going to do with yourself this morning, now that you're waking up here instead of in a little abandoned church on Jay Mountain? What now, that you don't have to eat bologna all week and listen to Gone With the Wind and replay over and over in your mind the last moments of another boy's life, taken by your own hands? What now, now that you've got tomorrows that extend more than a week from today?_

 _What now, Johnny?_

 __Of course, to Johnny, "now" didn't mean anything different than it had yesterday, or the day before that, or any of the weeks and months and years prior to that. Now was just now, and it wasn't any different than yesterday or tomorrow.

I sighed and ran the toe of my shoe across a rip in the rug. "You got any plans for today, Johnny?"

He shrugged and rolled his shoulder around, working out the kinks of sleeping on the couch. "Probably just head home." He gave me a curious look, as if nobody had ever asked him before what he planned to do with himself, but didn't say anything. After a minute, he turned toward the door. "Tell Ponyboy I'll see him tomorrow or somethin'."

As Johnny opened the front door, I stood up. "Wait."

He stopped, hand on the doorknob, waiting, but I hadn't even known what I was going to say. With his dark hair hanging across his forehead and a world of patience in his tired eyes, Johnny looked back at me. "Yeah? What is it, Sarah?"

"You're important," I blurted out, and his eyes got a little wider, maybe because he thought I was a little crazy and I was wasting his time. But I hadn't let him do all he ever needed to do in the world and then die, so I needed to do something else. Maybe since Ponyboy hadn't gotten the chance to be Johnny's voice, maybe instead Johnny could figure out how to be his own voice. I licked my lips and straightened my skirt. "You're important," I repeated. "My mom, she used to say, 'There's something special about Johnny. He's got important things to do in his life, soon as he leaves this old town behind.'" I notched my hair behind my ear and gave a one-shoulder shrug. "It's just…I just thought you might want to know, is all. My mom thought you were meant for great things. She knew you were. And my mom was usually right about stuff like that."

Johnny stared at me for another few seconds, his eyes looking a little less defeated and a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He looked down and gave a slight nod. "Thanks. Thanks for telling me."

And then, the door closed behind him, and he was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

We were wandering around town trying to figure out how to get me back out of the story.

 _Out of the story._

With a heavy sigh, I sank onto the curb and crossed my arms over my knees. "I hate this."

Ponyboy, his hair still practically dripping wet from his shower, stood over me with a lit cigarette hanging from his fingers. "What's wrong?"

Nice of him to be so casual about it, I thought. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe that I'm _leaving?_ Maybe that I'll _never see you again?_ "

With a sigh of his own, Ponyboy crouched in front of me, took a drag of his cigarette, and put his hand on my arm. "What makes you think we'll never see each other again?" Little wisps of smoke leaked from the side of his mouth like an upside-down waterfall as he spoke.

I stared at his fingers, which were just as long and lanky as his legs. "This is just a story. You know?" I glanced up at him. "Just a goofy little story that doesn't even have a point."

He smiled. "I don't know about that. There was probably a point to it, if you think back."

And there we were again, back to analyzing my story. "I don't know. All I know is, I might never get back here again, and I've got nothing to prove to me later that I was even here. You know? It's like, what if it starts to fade away? What if even I don't believe someday that I was here? What if-"

"You still got that rock?"

"What?"

Ponyboy stood up, tossed his cigarette on the ground, crushed it out, and waggled his hand at me. "The rock. The one with all the colors you picked up in the tunnels."

"Oh!" I stood up and fished it out of my pocket to hand it to him. "Here." The iridescent swirls of color looked positively brilliant in the sunlight.

I watched Ponyboy take a permanent marker out of his back pocket and remove the cap with his teeth.

"Hang on," I said, "what're you going to do? I was going to give it to my grandpa when I get back."

He grinned through the cap, then took it out from between his teeth with the hand that held the rock and stuck it onto the back of the marker. "I think he'd be okay with you keeping one for yourself. Don't you think?"

I considered for a second. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess he would."

While I watched, Ponyboy wrote something on the smoothest surface of the rock. He re-capped the pen and handed the rock back to me. "There."

I read it out loud: " _To Sarah Jean Curtis. All of my love, Ponyboy._ " I almost got choked up. "Thanks, Ponyboy."

He crouched down in front of me, serious all of a sudden, put his hand on my forearm again, and looked into my eyes. "Listen, Sarah: this is yours. Okay? No matter what, or where, or how, this rock is yours now. No matter what it's ever been, now it's me telling you that you were here, and that I was here, and that I'm glad we had a chance to become friends. Got it?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah. I got it. I wish I could leave something here for you, though."

He stood up and smiled. "You already did." When he held his hand down to me, I took it and let him pull me to standing.

I notched my hair behind my ear and straightened my skirt. "So anyway, I'm sorry about the story."

"What about it?"

"You know. The way I never really did anything with it. I mean, I kept Johnny from dying, but you were right. It didn't accomplish anything."

"I don't know about that."

I squinted at him as we started walking. "What'd you mean?"

He stepped down off the curb to walk along the side of the street. "I heard you talking to Johnny this morning. I thought that was really nice, what you said to him."

My chest swelled a little. "Really?"

"Yeah. Really. I mean, it wasn't the way things happened, but maybe if somebody had told Johnny he was important, maybe he would have believed them, and maybe…." Ponyboy looked up ahead. "I don't know. Just, maybe." He shrugged and gave his head a little shake. "Anyhow. I think you're an okay girl, Sarah."

I sighed and ran my fingers over the swirls of color in my rock.

"What?" Ponyboy asked, slowing down to look at me. I slowed down too, and we both ended up slowing down so much that we were just standing there again. "What's wrong?"

"I guess I just…I don't know that I'm really an okay person. Maybe not as okay as you're giving me credit for, anyway." The top surface of the rock was warm under my fingertips.

A few seconds later, Ponyboy gave me a gentle tap on the arm, prompting me to keep talking.

I shook my head. "This is stupid. It's got nothing to do with anything." I wasn't even sure why I was considering telling him, other than that it felt like I really needed to get it off my chest, and we'd made this connection sort of thing over the past couple of days. I mean, how can you not have a connection with the person who joined you in following a duck around a bunch of underground tunnels? I shook my head, though. "It's stupid."

"It doesn't matter. You already started, and now I want to know. Spill it."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Remember how I told you my grandpa was a writer, like you want to be?"

"Yeah?"

When I sat down on the curb and wrapped my arms around my knees again, Ponyboy plopped down next to me. "What's wrong?"

I took a breath, swallowed, and cleared my throat. "I lied to him," I said. "I lied to my grandpa. I told him I'd read one of his books, even though I hadn't. I just, like, acted like I had, because I wasn't all that interested in reading it, but I didn't want him to feel bad." I gave Ponyboy a pleading look, as if he'd be able to wave away my sins.

He shrugged. "So? What's the big deal? You weren't interested in the book."

"No." I put my face in my hands and took in a deep breath. "That's not it. I actually did end up reading it, and when I did, I read the whole thing in one day. It was the day after Grandpa had his stroke. And it was amazing, Ponyboy. The book was amazing." When there was a pause, I ventured a glance at my pretend brother and realized that it didn't feel pretend anymore. Maybe he wasn't my real brother, but he was the closest thing to one I'd ever had.

Ponyboy narrowed his eyes, and for a second I was mortified, thinking maybe he'd read my mind, but then he spoke again. "Alright," he ventured carefully, "so the book wasn't so bad. But you read it, right? Why're you being so hard on yourself?"

How was I supposed to explain it to him? To explain the guilt and the shame that were swelling through me in growing waves? "That wasn't the only time," I admitted. "That wasn't the only time I lied to him." The sound of the rushing water flooded my mind, washing out the truth, finally, and I cleared my throat and let it all spill out. "Okay. It's just … I've got a big family. I mean, not huge, but some aunts and uncles, and they all have kids, so there's, like, fifteen cousins, plus my two sisters. And me, well, I'm the youngest of the youngest." When Ponyboy gave me a puzzled look, I explained. "My dad was the youngest kid in his family. Me, I'm the youngest in mine. And I'm talking, eight years between me and my next youngest sister. I was basically a surprise."

He nodded encouragement when I stopped again. "Okay. Keep going."

"I know. Okay, so remember how I told you before that my grandpa had taken all of my cousins on some big trip someplace when they were growing up?" He nodded. "Well, I was the last one. Everyone else was older than me, and they'd all gone on their trips. By the time I was old enough, though, Grandpa was getting some health problems and couldn't really travel so much, so I was supposed to go to his place and spend the week there." I remembered imagining sitting at a table playing cards for six days straight until I'd pulled out half my hair and wanted to puke, and I cringed at how shallow and short-sighted I'd been.

Ponyboy, waiting patiently for me to get on with it, picked up a twig and dragged it through the sandy dirt along the edge of the curb, making swirls and circles.

I closed my eyes for a second before continuing. "Remember how I said I couldn't go spend time with my grandpa, because I was sick?" I paused for a second to get some spit running through my mouth, which was really dry all of a sudden. I cleared my throat again, and my voice actually caught a little when I started talking again. "Well, the thing is, I wasn't really sick. When Grandpa wanted me to visit him last summer, I was totally fine. My friend invited me to go with her family on vacation to this huge water park, and I wanted to do that, so I told him I was sick. And then I told my parents that Grandpa had called and said we needed to reschedule because he was too busy with a book he was finishing After that, it just, like…never happened. I had camp, and then he was in the hospital for a few weeks, and then school started up, and it just…never happened." I gave a quivering sigh and waited for Ponyboy to tell me what a horrible person I was.

"You're horrible," Ponyboy said. "You're a real awful person, wanting to go and have a good time instead of hanging out in Boringville, USA with a smelly old guy."

I popped my head up and glared at him. "He's not smelly. And I am horrible, because he's my grandpa and I let him down." My throat tightened so much, my next words came out in a shaky croak. "And now I might never be able to tell him how much I really loved his book, and I'll never be able to tell him how much it meant to me, and I'll never be able to really get to know him, because he's dying, and it's not fair. I need more time. I need to _talk_ to him. I need to get to _know_ him." I wiped a tear off my cheek and sniffled. "But he's really bad. I mean, really bad. They don't think he'll make it. They don't think he'll ever wake up again. Too much of his brain was damaged from the stroke. This is _so_ not fair, Ponyboy," I said, nearly pleading. "I don't want my grandpa to die yet." I took a deep breath. "Just want to talk to him. I am so stupid."

Ponyboy gave a lopsided grin. "You're not stupid, Sarah. You're young. I guess they seem like the same thing sometimes, but they're not." He stood up, stretched, and extended an arm to me. I took his hand and let him pull me to standing. "Take my advice on this one: don't let guilt weigh you down. You can't change the past, and you can't stop people from dying when it's their time. Best you can do is learn from your mistakes, and maybe help other people not make the same ones. I mean, when my parents got killed, it wasn't like I'd had a chance to say good bye or anything. In fact…."

"What?" When he didn't say anything, I reached out and set my hand on his arm. "Ponyboy?"

He averted his eyes before continuing in almost halting words. "That morning, when my parents died, my…my mom was kind of mad at me. She wanted me to help her clean the place up for some company that was coming, and I wanted to keep reading because I was almost finished my book."

"So did you end up helping?"

He shrugged. "Not really. She kept asking, and I kept telling her I'd be there in a minute, but by the time I finished the book, she was done." Ponyboy took a breath and gazed up into the sky for a second. "She never said she was mad or upset, but I could tell, you know? I could just tell."

"Hey," I told him, "I'm sure it wasn't really big deal for her. I'm sure she wasn't that mad."

He brushed his damp hair off his forehead, ran his fingers the rest of the way through to the back of his neck, hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, well. It was a big deal for me. She just wanted some help, and I spent the last day of her life giving her a hard time. And you thought _you_ were a horrible person."

"No," I said, and I meant it, "she was your mom. The last thing she would ever want would be for you to feel bad your whole life over something like that. She might have been mad for a little bit, but you both thought you had more time with each other."

The corner of Ponyboy's mouth raised in an almost-smile. "Yeah, well, guess what? You're not a horrible person, either. And I'll bet the last thing your grandpa would want would be you moping around because you thought you'd have more time with him."

I smiled. He really did get it. "Thanks."

#

We ended up deciding that the best place to figure out how to get me home would be the movie theater, where everything had started. After paying for two tickets, Ponyboy led me into the theater. It wasn't too busy, so we found two seats near the front.

Ponyboy stretched out his arms, one across the back of my seat and one across the empty seat on his other side, and looked down at me. "What's wrong, Sarah? You still look … I don't know, sad."

I sank down low in my chair and yawned, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly, exhausted. "I just can't stop thinking about it. About him. There were things I should have asked him about." With effort, I tried to fight off the heavy feeling that was rapidly overtaking me. "Things I should have done with him. Like you said, it seemed like he would always be there, like there'd always be more time." I gave a tired sigh and gazed up at Ponyboy. "I should have gone to visit my grandpa, Ponyboy. I should have known him better. If not for him, at least for me. Because I'm finally realizing what an amazing person he must have been."

Ponyboy gave me an understanding grin, and for a brief second there was something deeply familiar about the gentle sparkle in his eyes.

A moment later, as the lights dimmed and the credits started rolling, I lost the battle with my drooping eyelids. "But now it's too late," I mumbled, sinking further into my chair. "It's too late to do . . . too late . . . ."

For an instant, Ponyboy's comforting scent wafted through me, and his warm hand wrapped around mine, pressing it gently against the rock he'd given me, when he leaned in close and whispered, "It's never too late, Des."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"Des? Destiny, honey…."

My body arches itself into a sleepy stretch, and I jerk awake when my notebook hits the floor with a splat. _The rock,_ I think in my half-awake haze, _I've still got the rock_ ; but it's only my pen, gripped so tightly in my hand that my fingernails are digging into my palm. Even as the dream slips away and reality takes over, though, pieces of it begin to fall into place in my conscious brain. I wipe my eyes and blink at Mom, who is crouching in front of the stiff waiting room chair that I dozed off in.

"Mom?" I croak, feeling sick at the look on her face and willing time to linger for a bit in those few seconds before she tells me what I already know.

"He's gone," she whispers. "Grandpa passed just a little while ago."

I lean forward and take her hand. "I'm sorry," I whisper, a futile attempt at keeping the moment peaceful in the midst of chatting nurses, beeping instruments, and ringing phones.

She nods and leans her face into her hand to wipe her eyes. "I know." I bend forward to pick my notebook off the floor when Mom stands up. "He was peaceful at the end," she tells me as I stand, and we ease our way up the hallway. "Grandma was with him, and Daddy, and Uncle John, and Uncle Thomas."

I nod and swallow. "That's good," I offer, and it feels as lame as it sounds.

"They left, I told them to head back to Uncle John's house. Do you want to see him?" she asks. "Do you want to see Grandpa? Say goodbye? They haven't moved him out of the room yet."

I brush my hair off of my shoulder and glance at Mom. "Yeah? Can I?" Not entirely sure that I want to, I follow my instincts and let Mom lead me to the room where my family has kept a vigil for the past three days, since Grandpa had his stroke.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Mom asks, almost rhetorically, as she steps into the room with me, but I shake my head. "You're sure?" She sounds skeptical, so I nod again.

"I'll be okay," I assure her.

Mom takes a last look into the darkened room before sighing and rubbing my arm. "I'll be right out here."

My footsteps fall quietly on the white linoleum floor as I inch toward the bed. I've never seen a dead person up close. No, that isn't true-I had been to two viewings in my life, both with open coffins. But there's something different about approaching somebody who has just died; somebody whose bed still holds the warmth of the last moments of their life.

"Hi, Grandpa," I say, startled at my own hoarse voice. His hand is cool in my own, and I have the unnerving urge to rub it to make it warmer. "I know you're in heaven now," I tell him. What else do you say to someone who isn't there anymore? I lower myself onto the stool that was left by the bedside, and I stare at him, searching for something familiar, but all I can see is the lifeless body of an old man I hadn't really known too well.

The silence around me is nearly palpable, and the shaky breath I draw in seems to pull half of the air in the room into me. Is part of Grandpa still lingering in that air? Is he inside of me now, too? I blink and shake off my ridiculous thoughts.

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

I look up at the nurse at the foot of the bed, who apparently entered the room without realizing somebody was lurking in the corner.

She has her hand on her chest and a startled look on her face. "I'm so sorry," she repeats, "I didn't know someone was still here."

"It's okay," I tell her. "I was just about to leave."

She looks down at Grandpa as she gathers up some supplies that had been left near the bed. "How old was he, if you don't mind my asking?"

I smile. "Ninety-three." I wish he could have lived even longer, I want to add. But when you're thirteen, I guess it feels like there will always be time for whatever you think you need to do. There's always tomorrow.

The nurse, who I don't recognize as one of the ones who had been around for the past few days, picks up Grandpa's chart. "I have all of his books," she says with a hint of admiration. "I read them all."

I'm too ashamed to admit that I finally read one of my grandfather's novels – his first and best-known one – only two days earlier.

"Was this really his real name?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah, that was his name." _Ponyboy Michael Curtis_. Brother, father, uncle, grandpa, great-grandpa … friend. I stand up to leave, but pause just past the foot of the bed. "Do you…do you think people who die ever…."

The nurse turns to look at me. "Ever what, honey?"

I feel kind of stupid, but I need to ask, and she seems like as good a person as any. "Do you think they ever say goodbye to people they know?" She gives me a slightly quizzical look. "Like, I don't know—in dreams, or something? Before they…move on?"

The nurse gives a sympathetic smile. "I don't know, honey. I don't know."

#

It isn't fair. I want it to be real so bad. My siblings and cousins, all the ones who'd traveled with Grandpa and spent one-on-one time with him over the years, are plugging along just fine, smiling and laughing and enjoying each other's company as we all begin coming together in preparation for the viewing and funeral. Sure, they're sad that Grandpa is gone, but as they talk about all the stuff they remember about him, the things they experienced with him, they have something to hold on to, even as they let go.

For me, it's different.

In the days leading up to the funeral, I can't get that dream out of my head. Not only that, but I can't explain it to anyone, either. I mean, I try, but in the light of reality it just comes out sounding like a goofy dream where I didn't even realize the boy I had befriended was my own grandfather. But that was typical of any old dream, right? Where the stuff you know in real life kind of shifts to the back burner. It had just been a regular dream. Not an adventure, not a message, not anything real.

Certainly not something that should have me crying myself to sleep every night, missing the boy who grew into the man who was largely responsible for my existence. Missing my friend. The warmth of his smile, the sound of his voice, the quiet wisdom that glowed from inside of him, even the brotherly way he teased me about my goofy quirks and naïve passions-I miss Ponyboy so much, it physically hurts. But is it him that I miss, or a version of him I created in my own mind after reading the book he wrote about one of the most influential weeks of his own life?

My family, I realize, doesn't seem to recognize the depth of my grief. After all, why should they? They know that I'd barely known him, and they'd seen that I'd had little interest in getting to know him better when he was alive. Why should a ten minute nap in a hospital waiting room have changed any of that? Yet there I am, crumbling apart inside from a pain that I could only have explained to one friend who is two generations and a lifetime away from me-Ponyboy.

And then, without warning, without explanation, I wake up one morning, and all of the pain and all of the feelings have just disappeared. Evaporated. Gone.

And that devastates me to a level that the grief never even touched.

#

The plan is to bury Grandpa in his hometown, in the cemetery where his parents and brothers are buried. Most of us have to travel there. When he had his stroke, Grandpa was living a few hours away from us, several hundred miles outside of Oklahoma. We've got phone calls to make, bags to pack, airports to wait in, and cars to rent. It's a whirlwind of activity, those days before the funeral, and through it all, I pick up the book at least a dozen times, look at the cover, and put it back down. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to read it again.

By the time the plane touches down the morning of the viewing, I've gone numb.

Maybe it's too much to process, or maybe I've accepted that he's gone, or maybe—and this is what scares me the most—maybe the memories and the connection I made with Grandpa—with Ponyboy—are simply fading away, the way dreams do after you wake up. Maybe it was just a dream, and that's all it will ever have been.

After getting ourselves showered and dressed in the hotel room, my parents and I meet up with my sisters for dinner before heading to the funeral home. It's mostly family there. I mean, how many of your old buddies are still around to come to your funeral when you live into your nineties? But there are also some other people I don't recognize, and my mom tells me they're people that Grandpa knew professionally. Editors, publishers, stuff like that.

The casket is open, but I can't bring myself to walk over to it. I tell myself that it's because I already saw him in the hospital, but part of me wonders if it's really because I'm afraid. What if looking at him again takes me another million miles away from the dream? What if it makes me even more numb than I already feel?

What if I never feel anything real ever again for the sweet, cool, tough-as-nails boy who tried to teach me how to tell a story that was worthy of being told?

#

Beads of sweat roll down my back as we stand around the casket that's suspended across boards above a hole in the ground. There's a minister reading words from a bible, but I'm not really listening to him. Even though I'm wearing a lightweight skirt and a loose blouse and sandals, the heat is stifling.

My gaze moves across the faces around me and I wonder what they're thinking. Is anyone wondering what kind of food is going to be set out for the buffet lunch afterward? Thinking about taking another shower back at the hotel room? Wishing they'd worn the bra that doesn't have the itchy tag right under the strap? Because those are all of the things that are going through my head. I'm not looking at the box in front of me, not thinking about what's inside of it. I'm just hoping we leave before it gets put down into the ground.

It doesn't last long, but after the minister finishes his sermon, everyone starts mingling around, consoling one another and talking. I'm suffocating, I realize, suffocating from the heat and the people and the numbness. I have to get away.

Slowly, I wander along the row of old headstones. Some have flags and flowers and shrubs set around them, while others are surrounded by only grass. A few have little trinkets in front of them or next to them: gifts offered by a visiting wife or husband or child to somebody who left them too soon.

And then, there's a particular headstone in front of me, and my mouth goes dry as my heart begins to race and my hands start to shake. Carved in simple block letters on the small, unadorned headstone are the words _Sarah Jean Curtis, 1927-1966. Beloved wife and mother._

"That was going to be your name, you know."

My whole body startles at my father's words, but he doesn't seem to notice. "What?" I say.

He moves forward to stand next to me. "She was Grandpa's mother. When we found out you were a girl, and we knew you'd be our last, I thought it would be nice to name you after my dad's mother." He smiles at the memory of it. "He said no, though. When I handed you to Grandpa in the hospital and told him what your name was going to be, he said no, don't do that. She's got to be her own person. 'This girl," dad remembers aloud, setting a hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze, "this girl is destined for great things. She needs a name that fits her. Something as original as she is.' And, well, there it is." He smiles at me. "Grandpa named you Destiny."

I swallow the lump that's forming in my throat and try to do a speed check of every file my brain has stored away. I can't find it. I don't think …. "I don't think I knew that," I say.

Dad shrugs. "I never told you. In fact, I'd almost forgotten until now."

The dream is back again so clear, I can almost hear his voice: _How about Sarah? You kind of look like a Sarah._ The irony of it, the joke behind it, almost makes me laugh, but now the pain is inching its way back. Was it real, or was it a figment of my imagination? A spark of anger crackles inside of me. If it was real, why would he leave me here like this, wondering?

"Des?"

My dad is watching me and rubbing my arm. I realize I must have spaced out for a second. I lick my lips and swallow, trying to force that lump to dissolve away. And then, with a start, as I look at my dad, I realize how very much he resembles his father. Not the one from the coffin, though. The one from all the old pictures; the one with his hair greased back, standing and smiling next to another handsome boy in front of a gas station pump. The one from my dream.

I look away.

The grave that lays before us is unkempt, I notice. With Grandpa living so far away, and no family left back in his hometown, the only caretakers are the ones who are hired to cut the grass. Up near the headstone, though, some longer grass and weeds have taken over. All at once, I'm overcome by a compulsion to make my great-grandmother's grave look less forgotten.

My father joins me, and together we kneel by the headstone and begin pulling out weeds and wiping stray dirt from the crevices of her etched-in name. Aside from the rustling we're making with the weeds and our breathing, it's quiet. Peaceful. Nice.

Dad comes across the first rock.

"Look at this," he says, holding it up. "Looks like some type of rose quartz." When I raise an eyebrow at him, he explains, "I had a few geology classes in college. Thought about majoring in it." He sets the rock up against the headstone.

Within a minute, I find another one-a pure white, silky smooth specimen. "Here's another one," I say, and as I'm handing it to Dad, I see a dark mark on the other side of it. "What's that?" We turn it over and find, scrawled in fading black marker, the words _Happy Birthday Mom, love Ponyboy, 1982_.

I'm still staring in disbelief when Dad grabs up the first rock and flips it over. _Miss you, love you, Ponyboy_. "Dad must have left them here," Dad says, looking astonished at this insight into his father. "I remember him visiting about once a year for a while to see old friends and their families. I just … I had no idea." His eyes well up with tears, and I think we're both struck by the simple beauty of these rocks and their messages.

And then, it finally hits me, and I'm clawing through the weeds like a crazy person. I find and cast aside two more rocks, and my heart is sinking, before I finally see it. The sun glints off the iridescent colors like it hasn't been touched in a million years. My vision blurs when I gingerly pick it up with shaking hands. It looks exactly the same. I mean, _exactly_. This is the rock from my dream.

I swipe my hand across my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn it over.

 _To Sarah Jean Curtis. All of my love, Ponyboy._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

I can hear his words, in that soft southern drawl, in my head: _Listen, Sarah: this is yours….No matter what, or where, or how, this rock is yours now. No matter what it's ever been, now it's me telling you that you were here, and that I was here, and that I'm glad we had a chance to become friends._

My father has to carry me out of the cemetery. After seeing the inscription on the rock, I'd stumbled back to Grandpa's grave site and collapsed to my knees, sobbing, and I couldn't stop. It was him. He was there, and I was there, and now he was gone.

But finally, finally, I understood what my story had been about.

It hadn't been about saving Johnny, or stopping Dally from getting killed. It hadn't even been about changing anything in Ponyboy's story. What I had wanted most in the world, and it was so obvious now, was to talk to my grandpa, to get to know him better. To tell him I was sorry I'd taken him for granted. And he'd given that to me. No, he'd given that to _us_ , because the story had been as much for him as it had been for me. My grandpa had given us the chance to have our adventure together.

My family chalks my breakdown up to exhaustion and the stress of the trip. They have no idea how completely I am finally able to mourn, and how good it feels to know that person I am missing is truly the one we just buried, not just someone I created in a dream.

I tap my pen against my notebook as the runway disappears from beneath us. I'd been up until two in the morning, starting with the only sentence I'd written down back in the hospital waiting room days earlier and scribbling down the rest of our story from there. I turn back to the first page to read through it again on the flight: "I squinted against the bright sunlight as I walked out of the movie theatre. My brother, Ponyboy, and I had gone to see a Paul Newman movie."

I'm four chapters in when my eyes begin to droop. Three hours of sleep just isn't doing it for me. I close the notebook, lean my head against the window, and close my eyes.

#

"I mean, what's he like? I feel like I know Soda from the way you talk about him; tell me about Darry. Is he wild and reckless like Soda? Dreamy, like you?"

"He's…he's not like Sodapop at all and he sure ain't like me. He's hard as a rock and-"

"Oh, I think he's a lot like you," I interrupted. "I mean, he likes to give me a hard time and stuff, and that's like your favorite thing in the world."

Ponyboy turned around and rolled his eyes. "Really? What're you doin' here, anyway? This is my little sister, Sarah," he told Cherry before turning back to me. "I thought you were supposed to be home with Mrs. Arben."

I picked up a rock, tossed it in the air, and caught it. "She fell asleep, so I snuck out. Come on, don't look at me like that. Darry'll never know."

Cherry smiled. "I'll certainly never tell." She leaned closer to me. "So, Sarah, what're _you_ like?"

Before I could answer, Ponyboy cut in. "She's kind of like the maid. She cooks, she cleans—basically whatever I tell her to do—and she plays with baby dolls."

"Obviously he's lying," I said as we started walking. "I haven't played with baby dolls since I was eight. Ponyboy, on the other hand…."

I arched to the side when he tried to give me a playful jab me in the ribs.

Cherry laughed. "It's nice to see brothers and sisters who get along. Y'all are funny."

Ponyboy slowed down. "Could you excuse us for a minute, Cherry? I need to talk to Sarah." He dropped back from the others so he was next to me and lowered his voice. "Alright, here's the deal: One, Darry will find out about this, he ain't stupid. Two, you stand back and stay out of it when that Mustang shows up. And three." Ponyboy caught the rock I'd tossed in the air, jogged forward a few steps, turned, and tossed it back to me with a wink and a grin. "Took you long enough to get back here."

"Yeah, sorry about that." I smiled and rubbed my thumb across the silky smooth white surface of the rock before dropping it into my pocket. "I had a funeral to go to."


End file.
